


The Light That Prove A Devouring Fire

by Marie_Michon



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Athos/Aramis UST, Bible Quotes, Blow Job, Book Quotes, Book/Series Fusion, Caning, Cunnilingus, Duelling, F/M, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Physical Abuse, Poetry, Psalms, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Seminary life, Sexual Abuse, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3512117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Michon/pseuds/Marie_Michon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He lay in his own bed, for a change, sweating, panting, bare chest heaving heavily, visible because his blanked had slipped down to his waist from his fitful movements. He groaned and threw his head from one side to the other. His eyes moved rapidly behind his closed lids as he lived again through the horrid moments in this constantly recurring dream, a dream which wasn’t really just a dream but one of the darkest moments of his past…</em><br/><br/>--------------------------</p><p>Athos wants to know the past that haunts Aramis' nightmares. Dream flashbacks to Aramis' life at the seminary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scholar

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on Book!Aramis’ background and inspired by “The Three Musketeers”, Chapter 26 - Aramis And His Thesis. 
> 
> It contains quotes as well as sceneries from and references to the book, but the characters are more as described in the series. 
> 
> The title is taken from the dialogue between Aramis and the superior of the Jesuits of Amiens. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Big thanks go out to my beta reader, corrector and English supervisor pinkwithoutplot!! Thanks for taking some time although you are that busy yourself xoxo!

**Epilogue**

 

_He lay in his own bed, for a change, sweating, panting, bare chest heaving heavily, visible because his blanked had slipped down to his waist from his fitful movements. He groaned and threw his head from one side to the other. His eyes moved rapidly behind his closed lids as he lived again through the horrid moments in this constantly recurring dream, a dream which wasn’t really just a dream but one of the darkest moments of his past…_

 

Aramis was eighteen years old then, a promising seminary student on his best way to become an _abbé._ He was the best of the scholars, loved to argue and wrote brilliant theses. The priests often said he'd become one of the _Lights of the Church_ and he worked hard to live up to that. He was very skilled in current and ancient languages, spoke several fluently and was not only very good in translating the words of the ecclesiastical scripts but also keeping the verses' metre, often making them sound even more beautiful than before.

This was one of the reasons he was much sought after to translate writings, recite verses and write poetry, not only by the clergy but also by secular clientele, especially the female sort. It had been an assignment of the latter species that had ultimately led to him being whipped senseless and thrown out of the Church…

 

**The light that prove a devouring fire**

 

**Chapter One – Scholar**

 

 ****Athos****  

Usually neither he nor Porthos – let alone anybody else – would enter Aramis’ lodgings unannounced at this time of night, or in the early morning, as it would be.

Sometimes, when it couldn’t be helped, as on urgent business when called by their captain, M. de Tréville, he would approach his friends’ quarters not by the usual way he would take during the day. There was a shortcut from his quarters in the Rue Férou through the small back alleys that went behind the house in which Aramis lodged up to Rue Casset.

He could pass through there behind the building and sneak up right to the entrance of Aramis’ quarters which was situated on the side of the building, hidden from the direct view of the opposite side of the street by a vast arch of sycamores and clematis, without being seen. Athos loved to pass through there, inhaling the refreshing scent of the flowers after the pungent stench of the back alleys in summerly Paris.

But as it was in the middle of the night, he took a different approach by entering the Rue de Vaugirard directly. There was a mild breeze blowing over from the Petit Luxembourg enriched by scents from the gardens and freshened by the dews of the night on this way.

Athos stopped to take a deep breath.

It was befitting for Aramis to have his lodgings in this surrounding. His few rooms were all situated on the ground floor and his bedroom looked out upon a little fresh little garden, shady and impenetrable to the eyes of his neighbours. Although it was a very small apartment, Athos thought, not for the first time, he must spend way too much on the rent, more than they earned as Musketeers. Aramis kept telling his companions he gained extra money from publishing poems and translations, but – it suddenly dawned to Athos – it was way more possible that he was paying for it with other sort of means completely. 

 

Athos stopped a house before the one Aramis lodged in and looked around him. The streets were dark and empty at this time. Even all surrounding windows were black. Athos’ breathing evened out as his heart began to beat harder. He pushed himself between the house and the high hedge surrounding Aramis’ garden and slipped through to where he knew to be a hole in the fence behind it. A few seconds later, he moved to stand hidden from the view of Aramis’ windows behind a sycamore tree in Aramis’ garden. Athos leaned against it and let out a relieved breath.

If Aramis was at home, he was alone. Not that Athos could see anything, because the shutters before the windows were closed, but he knew Aramis well enough; knew that if he had company, there’d be light behind the shutters. Sometimes the window and shutter would even be open to let in the mild air from the garden. And there would be sounds, subdued female laughter, kissing, moans, and over all Aramis’ susurrations.

Athos loved hearing Aramis talk in this very low especially enticing way, pretty close to how he would talk to his hot headed Spanish stallion if he wanted to soothe him, but not quite the same. There was this little high pitched difference in his modulation, making him sound suggesting, a seducing purr that made Athos’ throat go dry and nearly forced a shiver down his spine…

 

…But only nearly. Athos was composed, too composed to give in to feelings, any feelings, such feelings in particular. He was not such a person, anymore. Neither would he ever allow feelings for another person again, especially not for a brother in arms, nor would he go so low as to linger in the shadows of a tree in a garden to catch a forbidden glimpse of another person lost in the pleasure he did deny himself of since the loss of his wife. What good would that be? He just wanted to make sure that he was not disturbing his comrade in an unfortunate moment or even worse compromise a visitor when he’d go around the building and take the proper entrance, as he’d unintentionally did once, when he – as it was the custom between his friends otherwise – had just knocked and entered.

They did have a heated discussion afterwards whether Aramis should lock his door or the others generally wait until he opened, but both propositions had their flaws. Aramis sometimes tended to have a pretty sound sleep and if he needed to be woken, there was no other chance than to be able to enter his lodgings. Also even if he did lock the door and Athos’ knocked, that would not give a visitor the chance of a silent retreat. Aramis had henceforth asked him to knock once and come back five minutes later, if he didn’t answer, but Athos wasn’t willing to wait around unnecessarily, especially if the orders were pressing, so he had decided for himself to go check if there actually was a reason for this procedure.     

This night, there wasn’t. Nor was there an urgent call from their Captain.  He just wanted to check on Aramis. The man hadn’t been his cheerful self lately and Athos knew some things of his mysterious part that the others didn’t, so it fell on him to be deeply worried about his friend. Athos knew him since then, knew him when he fell back, knew the things he could do to himself, or the company he’d seek if he was in that mood…

This night, he could see that behind the shutters of Aramis’ bedroom window no light was burning, and he didn’t hear a single sound coming out. He was alone then; asleep most likely… or gone. In a motion that involuntarily resembled the one Aramis used to make, Athos pulled his hat from his brow, sighed, raked a hand through his hair and put the hat back on. He didn’t have a good feeling about his… he had to make sure.

\----------------------------

 

****Aramis** **

Aramis had been sent to the seminary school since he was nine years old. Saint-Magloire was the first seminary in Paris and had been established just a few years earlier in the suburb St. Jacques just a few streets away from the Luxembourg Gardens.

He had been a good-natured and smart but wild boy. His father had been a strict man and not reluctant to use a belt on him, but Aramis had learned all too soon, that he had known no correction until he met his seminary superior, father Arnault. Aramis got to know his arsenal of birches, switches and canes real fast for missing no opportunity to bend the rules. Although he was able to charm himself out of most punishments by hiding his mischievous smile behind a most repentant glare, looking like a perfectly innocent little angel with his unruly dark curls and big brown eyes, he was still chastised too many times to count.

He had gotten used to the sound of birches hissing down on him soon enough, was familiar with the pain when they made sharp contact with his back or behind, with or without shirt or breeches. It nevertheless had become harder with the years when he had been punished more and more forcefully and the strokes had started leaving welts, welts so painful that he couldn’t sit or lie on his back for several days.

 

In the first years he had still listened to what the priests said and he had often thought about the lesson they tried to teach him throughout the beating and afterwards when he had to kneel in the chapel and pray hundreds of _Pater Noster, Salve Regina or Ave Maria._ Actually he had spent quite a lot of time there and thought about his wrongdoings.

 

As he turned older, his deeds had less and less to do with boyish pranks and more with his personal “sense of adventure”. That was when he more often than not refused to listen to the priests and increasingly made up his own mind. He started contemplating whether he had done truly something _his_ conception of God would have punished him for, especially after he undertook his first experiences with the _carnal offences_ , harmless as they were in those days.

This was when his philosophical approach went perceptibly astray from the _prevailing opinion_ and he began losing focus on the lessons taught by the priests. He started arguing against his punishments and questioned how God might think people gained from forbidding something as harmless as touching oneself or each other. He understood and was willing to accept boundaries which were useful or when they could prevent trouble of any kind amongst mankind, but where none of this applied he found the restrictions he was to bestow upon himself ridiculous and acted accordingly.

He couldn’t remember most of these transgressions he stood bent over his superior’s desk for with the switch or - depending on what exactly he had done -  the cane coming down on his behind, it had happened on too many occasions. But he did remember the first time he had been whipped. He had just turned fourteen and it had been worth every single one of the ten painful lashes.

 

\----------------------------

 

****Athos** **

Returning the way he came, Athos slipped out of the garden, back to the street and approached Aramis’ door the proper way. He knocked once and when no answer came, tried the handle. It was open. Aramis was at home, then. If Athos had still believed in God, he’d have thanked him.

He hurriedly opened the door and stepped inside. He was a friend, after all. Welcome every time of day… or night. He silently removed his hat, weapons and jacket in the adjusting room and entered Aramis’ bedroom on tiptoes. Just as he had feared, Aramis was having nightmares, again. He was sweating, thrashing his head about and groaning in his sleep.

Athos removed his boots by the door and went to wet his handkerchief in Aramis’ water mug. He had drunk enough that evening to be needing a cold cloth on the forehead himself, but the night chill outside and the sight of Aramis in this state were enough to sober him considerably.

He carefully sat down on the side of the bed; decidedly not taking in how far down Aramis’ sheet had been thrown, so that his well-defined abs had been laid bare. He carefully pulled the sheet back up, without following his impulse to brush his knuckles lightly against them although they were twitching heavily with Aramis’ laboured breathing.

Sweat was beading on Aramis’ forehead and rolling down his face to his throat, letting his dark, long, wavy hair wet and curly, clinging in thick strands sticky against his skin. Athos swallowed hard as he watched one bead running down Aramis’ jugular. He nearly lost himself in the sight when Aramis threw his head around again, facing away from him.

 

Athos carefully bent over Aramis and padded the moist cloth against Aramis’ brow. He moved to sit closer against him in order to let him feel his own soothing warmth and hushed lowly. Aramis seemed to settle in his sleep, his fitful movements stopping for a bit, and he sighed weakly instead of groaning. Athos had to smile despite himself and took a look around. It was a moonlit night and the light coming in from between the shutters from outside was enough for him to see.

He didn’t see Aramis’ correction cord lying beside his bed, which meant it was probably hanging beside his cassock in his wardrobe, which was a good sign. Whatever was troubling Aramis did not have him hurt himself deliberately so far. Athos’ gaze fell on his bedside table; two bottles of wine, no glass, the bible. He leaned over and reached for the first bottle, it was empty, and then for the second, taking a swift swig he looked back at the sleeping Aramis. The bottle was nearly empty and Aramis wasn’t nearly as accustomed to drinking as he was. He had obviously wanted to numb himself considerably before going to sleep. He wouldn’t wake up anytime, soon.  

 

\----------------------------

 

****Aramis** **

A few corners down the street the Cistercian nuns of Port-Royal had opened a branch house of their famous abbey, including a school for daughters of higher families, like his own. Their abbess was kindred to Aramis’ superior and consulted him often, and father Arnault functioned as the confessional father for the nuns as well.

So Aramis, who spent an over-average time in the chapel, took every opportunity to be there and eavesdrop when he knew some of the nuns or girls came over to confess. Mainly, because he wanted to find out what nuns could possibly have to confess, secondly because he wondered whether there were any girls who had thoughts and musings similar to his own.

One of the schoolgirls of around his age particularly found his liking and he set high hopes in her from the very first instant they met.

 

Aramis had been kneeling in one of the middle benches on the left side of the church for some time that afternoon, reciting his 77th Ave Maria that day when she was being forcefully dragged into the chapel by her mother superior.

She vigorously tried to fight her abbesses’ grip and fervently spat out arguments against something out of his proper hearing range, which only had her receive a cracking slap in the face before she was dragged further on to the confessionary.

The sudden sound of the slap made Aramis steal a curious sideways glance at the girl. Whatever he had been expecting to see, it had not been such a fascinatingly beautiful little demon. Shining brown curls that obviously had escaped her braids were hanging around her cute round face in disarray, her little mouth was set in a most stubborn pout and her glistening eyes spoke of a defiant fury he recognised all too well.

He was strongly intrigued.

She was being dragged on to the confessional box in the right nave aisle of the church but in fighting back against the motion turned around and halted shortly as she perceived Aramis.

Their eyes just met for a split-second but the haughty way in which she looked down on him and the hateful passion Aramis saw flickering in her eyes - some dark spark, not unlike his own - had stirred something deep inside him. Something new…

Something menacing…

Something that woke his predatory instincts.

 

It left him dizzy and weirdly lightheaded. His lips curved into a slow victorious smile that turned his inquisitive look into a silent pledge.

He’d be with her.

 

In that split-second their eyes locked, she took in the same haughty demeanour as her own in him, was drawn to focus in on his dark and intent glare and recognised another insubordinate in him, a kindred soul in such an innocently handsome looking boy. He barely implied a nod towards her, but she saw the solemnity in his eyes despite his starting flagrant grin.

And she understood.

 

But she wasn’t in the mood to connect, right then, she was still too agitated, and turned back to her abbess hurriedly.

After a few steps of being dragged along further, she felt an urge to turn back to him, gave him just a quick tentative glance over her shoulder, and found him staring, still, and finally acknowledged his indicated nod with a level glance.

Aramis dropped his view – seemingly demure - back down to his hands and continued smiling to himself.

 

That was settled then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might be interested in the mentioned locations in the 1600th in Paris, if you are proceed reading, otherwise, don't bore yourself!
> 
> Dumas wrote down precisely where every one of the main characters of the Musketeers lived and also about several other locations. Most of them are in this area:
> 
>  
> 
> I kept close to the book in his descriptions of those locations. The only mistake Dumas made was mentioning the "Rue Servandoni" which did not yet exist in the 17th century. It actually was named "Rue des Fossoyeurs" in that time which he also mentions. So he must have mistaken it for one of the other streets around there, from the context most possibly the "Rue du Pot de Fer."
> 
> He did not, however, mention which seminary Aramis went to as a youth. From the story we must assume it was in Paris as he frequented "a certain house of La Rue Payenne". ^^
> 
> As it were, the only seminary in those days in Paris was the ["Séminaire_Saint-Magloire"](http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/S%C3%A9minaire_Saint-Magloire).
> 
> And guess what, it is located directly in the same street as the Port-Royal Abbey , an institution the real [Marie de Rohan is known to](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Port-Royal_Abbey,_Paris) have gone to.
> 
>    
> 


	2. Cousin

**Aramis**

He stole his way out of the seminary as often as he could and walked down the street to the Port Royal abbey to see if he could get a chance to leave a note for her, but none of the girls were ever seen outside the walls without surveillance.          

It took a whole fortnight until another girl accompanied the mother superior to their chapel.

When she passed him by, she secretly dropped a little note.

Seeing the little folded and slightly crumpled piece of paper on the floor, Aramis beamed inwardly.

It had to be from her!

But he sat still, his face a solemn mask. He didn’t move and waited until they had left the main nave and he was alone again until he picked it up and hastily unfolded it.

 

It was not what he would have expected from a girl, but it stated a time and a location on it and read:

 

_“Dear Cousin,_

_Saturday after lunch, grand-aunt’s grave._

      _M.”_

Ah, the cunning girl, he thought.

She surely meant to meet him at the cemetery behind the chapel. In a more secluded part there were a few bigger graves with sculptures on them that had different nick-names amongst the boys but he was sure he knew which one she was referring to with their “grand-aunt”.

And to address him as her cousin to visit a relatives’ grave together might be explained innocently enough should anyone have found the letter. He found himself approve of his choice of new companion once more and happily pressed the note to his chest.

 

\----------------------------

**Athos**

Athos took a final swig from the now empty bottle, set it back and looked down on his sleeping friend again.

Aramis seemed more relaxed now. Maybe he felt his brother-in-arms’ closeness. Maybe his warmth and presence calmed him, gave him comfort, even. Athos allowed himself a neutral breath, which was as close to content as he would get.

He had come here to make sure Aramis was all right, that he was safely asleep in his own quarters, and did not do something stupid.

He had made sure of that. He could go back now… to his own bed. Below which another bottle of wine waited for him to drown… something.

This!

The madness.

 

He pocketed his kerchief, brushed a few wet curls from Aramis forehead, bid a silent ‘Sleep well!’ stood up and attempted to leave. He had to force his eyes away from his friend.

Instantly, his _not_ neutral breath was back, the heavy hearted one.

But he would go now.

 

He turned and his gaze landed on the bible; Aramis’ bible. It was open and turned upside-down.

Usually, Aramis would not treat books like this, straining their binding. He loved and respected books, especially the bible, reading from it comforted him.

He had once seen Aramis read from the bible aloud, translating a psalm to Porthos. Aramis drew strength from it. It was so very unlike him to treat it so disrespectfully. 

Athos looked back at Aramis. What went on in his mind?

Intrigued, Athos stepped closer to the holy book and picked it up, careful to not flip a page while turning it over to take a look at what Aramis had probably read last. He brought it closer to his eyes and turned back so that the sparse light from outside could fall on the page.

 

Genesis 3:17

 

Athos closed his eyes and let out an uneasy exhale. He opened his eyes slowly again and cast the look of annoyed misgiving that was reserved solely for Aramis towards him.

 

_"And to Adam he said, ‘Because you have listened to the voice of your wife,_

_And have eaten of the tree of which I commanded you, 'You shall not eat of it,'_

_Cursed is the ground because of you; in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life;”_

This was so typical for Aramis!

 _Sacre bleu_ , he’d do foolish thing, unspeakably foolish things, over and over again. But did he at least relish in his doings - as one would think they must have been worth a lot to him for all he risked committing them? The hell no! Below all his nonchalant and careless air, Athos knew Aramis did reproach himself strongly and punish himself terribly for it.

So many times Athos had wanted to punch Aramis so hard for something he had done. HELL knew how much, but one look into his eyes, Aramis’ deep, dark brown eyes that turned black and open then, letting Athos in to see right into his tainted soul, showed him how much he suffered already; silently, most of the time, masked behind his flirtatious demeanour.

Not so silently sometimes, when things went down. Athos had seen Aramis punish himself horribly, bodily and mentally, just for trying to console himself afterwards with something he knew beforehand would taint his soul even more.

 

Athos stepped back towards the bed. Sorrow plain in the frown on his forehead as he looked back down at his sleeping comrade.  

How beautiful he looked, with the silver moonlight on his sweaty skin, accentuating his finely chiselled features. 

Athos rolled his eyes at himself and sighed capitulating.

He moved to fit himself next to Aramis on the bed with his back resting against the headboard and his hand resting feathery on Aramis’ head.

Athos closed his eyes and banged the back of his head against the headboard.

 

Once. 

Twice.

He was such an idiot.

 

But there was no way to escape this craving, other than drink himself numb, or giving in. God knew he had tried!

Once an addiction got the better of him there was nothing left of him to resist it. It had gotten worse every time… first her, then alcohol, and now… it was all too much.

  

\----------------------------

 

**Aramis**

She was there, --M. His heart beat faster as he stepped up to her.

 

“ _Ma chère cousine_ …” he said and bowed graciously over her hand.

 “Cousin-german!” she specified and smiled broadly.

 

“My name is René,” Aramis said and wanted to add his full name but she waved his words away with an impatient gesture.

 “Marie, but I’d prefer not to establish our names; such things tend to catch up with you in the worst of situations. I’ll just call you mon _cousin_.”

 “I see,” Aramis raised his eyebrows inquiringly,

 “Preparing yourself for a life full of _the worst of situations_ , then?” he questioned, searching for a sign of constraint, but not the slightest starting blush or flicker of embarrassment was to be seen,

  “--I like that!” he added with a challenging smile.

 

“I am to go to court in a few years,” she explained, “everyone knows that you have to be careful to survive in that net of espionage and intrigues there.”

“I am sure you’ll not only master the art of surviving there perfectly, but find yourself in the prevalence of the game.” Aramis performed a most elegant sweeping bow while keeping his head brashly up enough to gaze charmingly at her.

Marie curtsied just as equally elegantly and threw him a coy smile with her thanks, a smile he recognised as well trained but absolutely convincing - like his own. It takes one, to know one, he thought.

 

He engaged her in polite small-talk, showing just enough interest to keep her occupied but his eyes focused on her lips to catch the moment when her _real_ smile would show, but she kept her porcelain doll façade and folded her hands piously before her, watching him with mild interest as he tried to make her show herself over and over again with subtle verbal attempts.

How marvellous she was! Not as stupid and dull as most of the other girls… or boys… he had the misfortune to live with. His heart started beating perceptively in his tightening chest.

 

Aramis let his polished mask fall and allowed himself to look at her wholeheartedly. His stare intensified, narrowed in on her and his eyes turned black.

An imagined wall suddenly closed in from behind her, lessened her space to breathe, trapped her in a non-existent corner. 

Aramis stepped up to her, much closer than was decent, and into her personal space, never loosening his piercing stare into her carefully guarded eyes. Then he grasped her hand with his right one, which made her gasp exasperated and draw in a sharp breath.

 

“Cousin!” she exclaimed scandalised.

“Cousin-german!” he reminded her breathlessly and _kissed_ her hand.

 

He felt the _thing_ that lurked deep down inside him since he had first seen her in the chapel waken again. It seemed to flutter its wings behind his heart and press its hot heavy body down towards his groin. He felt the dizziness rising again with the increasing rush of his blood and took a short breath in to steady himself.

This was not a proper attempted kiss towards the hand as you would expect a gentleman give a lady of their standing, nor even a decent chaste kiss that barely touched her knuckles, but a kiss he had been dreaming a long time of giving.

They were seminary scholars and didn’t wear gloves, so Aramis took full advantage of this opportunity, opened his lips slightly and pressed them firmly on the bare back of her hand. She tried to withdraw her hand brusquely, but he held her steady with his thumb moving soothingly against her fingers and the sensitive inside of his lips leaving a damp trace on her silken skin as he slid down to her knuckles and sucked slightly, with the barest touch of the tip of his tongue between her fingers, taking the liberty of tasting her before releasing her hand again.

 

As soon as freed, she pulled her hand back and backhanded him forcefully with it, leaving not only the traces of his kiss but also a pulsing red streak across his cheek.

Marie glared at him indignantly.

She didn’t need to hiss “How dare you!” it was written all over her posture.

But Aramis saw her chest heaving raggedly saw a pink flush rising at her throat and guessed why she didn’t actually say it. Lest he heard her voice tremble _other_ than angry. --She had loved it!

Aramis tried hard to look apologising as if deeply chastened by her hit. He ducked his head and looked demurely up to her through his long lashes, showing his most angelic face.

But she saw right through it. --He had loved it!

 

She turned away to hide her raging emotions and stormed off.

Aramis sighed deeply, disappointed that she left but content nevertheless, and slowly made his way back to the seminary building.

 

He had been aroused before, by all kinds of situations or thoughts, but this _demand_ spreading from inside him right now was so much fiercer than usually, so much harder to ignore, especially as the noticeable part of his arousal didn’t subside on his way back, no matter how strongly he concentrated on willing it away, he remained painfully hard.

Luckily he made it back to his room, which he shared with five other boys of different ages, unnoticed, but from the hallway he already heard that at least two of his roommates were studying inside. So he turned around without entering and went straight to the community restroom.

This one at least was empty.

He carefully closed the door behind him with his last bit of restraint before he leaned exhausted against the wall right next to the door and let his head fall back against the cold stones. It had taken all his energy to calmly get back and try to think of something else than the taste of her skin on his tongue.

He had desperately tried to think of something to bring him down instead of thinking about how close he had come to losing all self-control and slipping his tongue completely between her fingers, turning her hand around and kissing her trembling palm wetly, thoroughly, licking his way up to her fluttering pulse in her wrist...

 

He felt way too hot and turned his head to lean his cheek against the cooling stones.

His cock was throbbing, feeling unbearably tight in his breeches.

He opened the lacings and slipped his right hand inside, the same hand that had captured hers, held her in place when she had fought to tear away. He still felt her fingers beneath his thumb that had stroked her idly, trying to steady her shiver, trying to still her and make her relish the touch of his lips.

He lifted his left hand to his mouth and recapitulated his kiss to her hand, deepened it, luxuriated in the thought of making her swoon with his soft lips nibbling gently at her wrist before kissing his left for real and started moving the other hand in his pants, finally allowing himself to unleash his lust.

He had to suppress a heavy moan as he pressed his palm against his swollen cock and started moving his hips against his dampening hand inside his breeches.

He intensified the kiss on his left, sucked at it open mouthed, leaving wet red marks, while simultaneously rocking his now equally wetting member, leaking with pre-come further against his right. 

He imagined sucking her fingers into his mouth, imagined her moan and gasp as he was circling them with his dexterous tongue, biting measuredly down on them just enough to leave indentions with his teeth, spiking his pleasure with a final lasting bite and with some last rough bucks of his hips came heavily with a groaned cry he tried to muffle by biting harder into his left hand.

 

He let his head sink back against the wall and went slack trying to get his racing heart back into something close to a normal pace, softened knees making him glide down a bit like liquid poured against the wall when the door opened with a creak.

Aramis didn’t stir.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been caught doing something like this and he was already beyond shame regarding this…

 

...at least this time he’d been alone.


	3. Seminarian

**Aramis**

“René?” asked the voice of one of his closer fellow _seminarians_  as the door opened.

Even better, Aramis thought, recognising the voice instantly, and smiled to himself; this one would never denounce him, on the contrary.

“ _Ah, Jean-François mon ami_ ,” he crooned, _“Je suis vraiment désolé_ , you are just a wink late for the choir practice.”

 

The boy named Jean-François took in Aramis’ form as he leaned lax against the wall of the restroom and all the other obvious evidence and smiled back just as mischievously.

“Oh no, did I miss the whole recapitulation?” did he ask with partly mocked and partly real chagrin and moved in, purposefully.

Aramis beckoned him closer.

“With you, _mon cher_ , I’d love to reprise” Aramis replied and caught him in a kiss.

Without losing contact with the wall he pulled the boy forward against him and deepened his kiss as Jean-François opened his lips willingly beneath Aramis’. Aramis closed his eyes and thought about Marie as he put all his built up lust into that kiss and circled Jean-François’ tongue with his’. 

He imagined how he would hold her beautiful head with his left as his right hand pulled her waist flush to his body; how he would listen to the different moans she’d give when he pushed his tongue deeper into her mouth, slide it pressingly against hers.

 

Aramis loved to kiss; it was something he was exceedingly good at. He often wondered if his teachers in language classes secretly also thought about _this -_ as he did - when they called him glib-tongued and praised his oral skills. These quite different skills of his tongue were actually praised just as often and he couldn't wait to unleash them upon Marie.

He would try to catch her tongue with his, encircle it, suck at it, lightly at first and when he’d hear her moans deepen in her throat he’d go further, push deeper, suck harder, press his groin against her and if he’d feel her respond, he’d draw her lower half closer even, so that he could press one of his knees between her legs and she’d be able to rub herself against him.

He could even just start to imagine, what that would feel like, with a girl. How he wouldn't need to be careful with another cock or balls to get squeezed uncomfortably – like now with a boy - when he pushes his thigh between hers.

He hoped he’d be able to tell when she became as aroused as he was, as anyone could tell with a guy, when his organ began to fill and swell… oh he wished he’d once be able to read women just as well as he did men! He couldn't wait to get that far with a girl without layers of skirts and breeches between them, so he could feel her getting moist against him like he had read in books he was not supposed to have found in the seminary cellars.

 

He groaned heavily as he thought about that and pulled Jean-François upon his leg instead. Oh yes, the boy definitely was aroused.

Jean-François was more than half hard and he could feel him filling up even more as he rubbed himself against Aramis in return.

Aramis, against prior thoughts, did not pay attention for the boys’ balls as he grabbed him by his bottom cheeks and pulled him further onto his right leg that he ground fiercely between the boy’s thighs.

Even when the answering groan might have been partially induced by pain, he didn't care. In his head, he was here with Marie.

 

With one hand he gave the regarding buttock a last squeeze before he kneaded it into Jean-François’ hair as he imagined it to be those shiny long curls he adored so much as his other dug further into his butt. As another moan seeped from Jean-François’ mouth into Aramis’, the latter lost the last bit of restraint and started ravishing the other boy with his mouth.

Jean-François finally gasped and pulled back coughing lightly, gulped in some air and braced himself against Aramis’ chest to get some space.

 

“Dear Mother, René…” he panted.

Aramis still had his eyes closed, lingering in his fantasies, and first licked and then bit his own lower lip, trying to restrain himself a little.

 

He would have to show some patience when he’d be with the girl. Girls were more delicate than boys; he couldn't handle her like this, roughen her up like he was close about to with Jean. He had to keep himself under control! His chest was heaving heavily, just as much as Jean-François’. The other boy looked at him out of weary eyes. But whatever he thought, he didn't stop there. He turned his eyes lower and fumbled eagerly to open Aramis’ shirt and unlace his smalls beneath his still open breeches. 

“You are so indecent, René, so… gorgeous!”

He slid down against Aramis’ legs and to his knees on the floor, drawing a low moan out of Aramis for a change as he pushed his garments down enough to pull out his cock. It had gotten hard enough again for Jean-François to not need to remove his hands from Aramis’ hips to catch the protruding tip of his cock with his mouth.

Aramis was still relaxed enough from his previous release that he didn’t buck up violently into Jean-François’ mouth. He still rested his head against the wall behind him with closed eyes, but he did open his mouth and hissed delightedly when the boys’ tongue welcomed him inside his mouth and his lips closed around his shaft. 

His right hand was still sticky but he couldn’t care less as he grabbed Jean-François’ hair hard, trying to keep him where he was, sucking at his sensitive head. He would need some more of this intense stimulation first when he wanted to come again so soon.

And he loved it best at the front of his cock, with the tip of the boys’ tongue pressing roughly against the underside of him.   

But Jean-François obviously was already desperate to swallow him whole.

He tore at Aramis’ hips either to drag him forward or pull himself closer and whined when Aramis added his other hand to keep him at bay.

 

” _Peste!_ Jean, behave!” Aramis hissed and pulled the boy off his cock to make himself heard.

He really could dwell no longer in his fantasy when the boy acted like this, so… greedy.

Aramis stopped his current thought to open another thread.

What exactly did he think _her_ to behave like in a situation like this?

 

“René?”

 Jean-François had sat back on his hunches and looked up at him with mixed feelings showing on his face. The situation was about to get out of hand. 

Aramis looked at the boy and sighed.

He couldn't do this to him, taking his own pleasure with his thoughts somewhere else completely, without any regard for Jean’s feelings. It had been tempting, lost as he was in his own mind, but this was not the person he was raised to be, his mother would have wanted him to be, his God would want him to be, _he_ wanted to be.

He had just been close to giving in to temptation...    

 

He smiled mildly at Jean-François, taking one of his hands in his and brought it up to his lips. 

“I’m sorry, my love!” he whispered in his most endearing voice and set the full force of his seductive stare into his eyes as he first kissed the boys knuckles and then added a persuasive smile as he sucked the boys’ fingertips into his mouth, kissing them slowly.

“Jean, _mon cher_ , I lost control when you ravished me like that…”

“ _Tais-toi_ , René!” 

Jean-François’ voice was on the brink between insulted and irritated but the reluctance with which he attempted to push himself up showed Aramis that he still wanted him.

 

“Jean,” Aramis crooned, “please, I’ll make it up to you, I just need it a bit slower so soon after…” 

With that he took Jeans fingers back in his mouth and dragged the tips slowly over the raspy part of his tongue, showing him what he wanted, _how_ he wanted it, his eyes never leaving the other boy’s.

 

As Aramis let himself fall into the mood again, feeling his cock twitch back into interest, he couldn't help his smile as Jean reluctantly steered his gaze away from his face and back to his cock.

He took Aramis in his hand this time and held him steady as he wrapped his lips indulgently back around his head and first started licking it like an especially tasty lollipop before sucking slowly at the head with putting as much attention to it with the curling tip of his tongue as Aramis had at his fingertips.

He sighed contently as he felt Aramis swell up to his full extent again, his hardness beginning to stretch out his mouth. He added his second hand to not only hold but also milk Aramis cock and started bobbing his head. He made sure to drag Aramis' length with as much pressure of the rough part of his tongue as he could exert sliding through his lips while sucking reverently.

His jaw muscles would be terribly sore again, tomorrow, but the moan that escaped Aramis’ mouth as he let his head drop back against the wall was totally worth it as it went straightly down vibrating through his own loins.

 

Jean-François’ own member had already been painfully hard since he’d been dragged against Aramis' leg and was throbbing furiously meanwhile, it curved up caught between his belly and the tight waistband of his breeches.

He couldn't help but whimper meekly for the urge of his pressing arousal of being touched as well when could taste the first pearl of Aramis’ pre-come being sucked out on his tongue.

He drew back panting, let the glorious salty taste spread on his tongue and watched more leaking out where that came from before he delved back on it, tongue first, wrapping the slickness all around Aramis' prick before taking it whole.  

Jean-François whined as Aramis gasped and pulled him even deeper upon him by his hair. He pumped his own hips rabidly to rub his own head against ...anything... pulling it back into his pants and pushing it back out through his continuously wetting waistband.

He wished he could have drawn back when he felt Aramis was close to coming, but Aramis was holding his head fast by his hair, fucking him ruthlessly now using the under inflation of his throat to being milked enough to come.

And he did with a groan, releasing his seed directly in Jean-François’ throat.

 

Jean-François’ frustrated cry was drowned by Aramis’ load as he fought more insistently to pull back.

He was released due to his struggle after a few more lazy after pushes when Aramis let his hands go loose in his hair so he could finally slide back just enough to have some rest of his spill dripping on his tongue.

The sheer taste of him was enough to bring Jean-François over the edge.

 

He let Aramis’ cock slide free from his mouth, moaning deep in his own release relishing in Aramis’ taste all over his senses, his seed dripping from his lips as he imagined how he had won the fight and pulled back early enough to have Aramis come all over his face.

Jean-François sank back to sit on his heels to look at Aramis face while still coming in sprays against his own belly and gave a last sigh after which he licked his lips to gather the last bits of Aramis’ lingering taste. 

Aramis looked down on Jean-François.

His head buzzed, pleased by satisfaction and the hot picture Jean-François presented; still coming with his own spill dripping from his overly used lips.

Aramis, feeling his own cock still giving some last dry pumps, regretted himself now, not having the boy allowed to draw back in time to see him showered.

   

“ _Mon Dieu,_ Jean!” he panted depleted when he heard the door open again. 

And this time it wasn't a friend.

  

\----------------------------

 

**Athos**

Athos leaned drowsily against the headboard, his left hand still stroking softly Aramis’ tangled sweaty curls as he watched him getting agitated in his sleep again.

His breathing sped up and started getting hitched.

Athos saw his muscles twitch beneath the blankets, his eyes moved under his lids.

Carefully he removed his hand from Aramis’ hair so he wouldn't wake him when he’d start throwing his head back and forth again. He moved the hand smoothly to Aramis' shoulder.

 

In his experience these little bodily gestures calmed his most tactile brother-in-arms down considerably, but Aramis seemed beyond calming, now.

He moaned in his sleep and turned his head towards him, panting heavily. His lips were so close to Athos’ hand now and he felt Aramis’ hot breath on his fingers. He wished he’d had kept his gloves on…

Aramis’ gloves, to be precise.

One of his old pairs that were still leagues better that his own holey ones had been, so Aramis had thrown his ones at him as he turned up with new ones, once again.

Athos couldn't have cared less about the state the gloves he wore were in, but the urge to put on those _he_ had worn before had won.

 

Aramis loved to buy expensive and very soft leathered gloves.

‘The women love them!’ he continued to claim.

But Athos knew that it was Aramis himself who relished touching the soft leather, or touching _things_ while wearing them.

For such revered items, he “misplaced” his suspiciously often.

Athos suspected he either left them as a souvenir on his mistresses’ demand or because he ruined them doing God-knows-what, because Athos sometimes had seen him with ridiculously expensive new ones a few days later.

Aramis usually claimed he bought those from his publishing income, but Athos was convinced he had rather been gifted most of them by his patronesses as a payback for the spoilt ones until those disappear again.

 

Athos felt his palm getting moist on Aramis’ already sweaty shoulder.

He fought the instant urge to withdraw his hand and wipe his fingers on his shirt as if he could wipe the tickling feeling away along with the sweat. But he won and started stroking his sweaty brother's slippery shoulder, down to his elbow and back up to his collarbone.

Wishing the tense muscles under his fingers to relax, working the sweat under his fingertips in Aramis' shoulder as if it was scented massage oil and caught himself having paused to actually rub his thumb against his two forefingers under his nose as if to take a smell.

He leant down over Aramis head and continued murmuring soothing nothings against his hair; trying hard to ignore how light-headed breathing in his scent left him, not unlike the hazy smoke in some of the more questionable establishments near the harbour, and wondered what his nightmares were about this time.

 

He didn't know much from Aramis' time before he came into the yard of the garrison looking for ' _the best swordsman in the regiment'_ and he still recalled his instant and startlingly fervid reaction to the haunted, forlorn look in the young man’s piercing eyes.

Porthos had stood up, like usual, knowing that Athos never as much as reacted to such kind of entrances.

It hadn’t been the first time some noble peacock had entered the courtyard searching for a tutor to teach him to fence for a duel that would in all probability cost him his life after all.

Nobody could be helped in that short of time, usually, and even if, _usually_ Athos didn't care the least.

But it also usually meant good payment and as Athos wasn't after that either, he _usually_ didn't mind Porthos taking the claim.

Until that day.

 

Athos, having sat alone in a far corner of the yard, hadn't stopped polishing his rapier but focused his attention furtively on the handsome man from under the shading rim of his hat.

Porthos had stood up from the breakfast table, showing off all his intimidating bulges of muscles in his half open shirt with his sleeves rolled up, clearly marking this opportunity as his.

So every other Musketeer who had also stepped forward to get a shot at the money had stepped back again, although grumbling.

 

Aramis had stepped up to Porthos without fear, looking stern and determined, but Athos hadn't been able to help noticing the flicker of his eyes towards the huge man’s twitching biceps and the swallow that had followed.

But Aramis had caught himself so quickly he doubted anyone else had noticed.

Aramis had then stated his request in such an eloquent and polite manner that Porthos had doubled over laughing, ridiculing him crudely for the fun of the gathered regiment until Athos had suddenly stood up, completely unexpected.

He had stepped up in front of Porthos and all the others and calmly said no more than:

“That’s enough.”

 

And with that alone he had quieted everyone, even Porthos had looked at him thoroughly surprised and backed off.

Athos had thrown them all a lasting, menacing stare before motioning to Aramis with a jerk of his head to follow him out of the garrison.

He had never let anyone mock Aramis since, apart from himself of course.

 

He had Aramis tell him the circumstances that had led to his wish to learn to fence, then, but that wasn't why he was having these nightmares.

He had wished to try and ask him about the rest of his mysterious past so many times over, but talking to Aramis in this state was not one of his strengths, especially not when Aramis was able to talk back.

'Tell me now, my friend,' Athos adjured sleeping Aramis, his hand back massaging his shoulder, his cheek resting against the headboard close enough over Aramis' head that his lips barely just touched the most stray  of his curls.

He closed his eyes torn between conscience and sentience.

\----------------------------

 

 **Aramis**  

Aramis threw himself in his usual seminary routines but couldn't get the feisty girl out of his head. He missed the adventure that was Marie by day and he missed something completely different by night.

But no other message was dropped for him.

After a month he wrote a note himself and hid it at the grave they had last met.

 

_“Dearest Cousin,_

_My heart still bleeds in matters of our late aunt._

_Rest assured I’ll pray every night for her peace of soul and beg her forgiveness._

_If it pleases you, join me in my ‘Office of the Dead’ on Friday after the None._

_Yours Devotedly.”_

Shortly before the _Vesper_ it became apparent that she wouldn't appear.

Aramis, in his disappointment, sank to his knees. He started to fear he had really overstepped his boundaries at their meeting and contemplated whether for other reasons she had decided to not see him again and already felt desperation crawling up his throat.

 

Then he saw it. 

She had left another note, not exactly where he had left his’, so he hadn't noticed it a first.

His heart missed a beat as he picked it up gingerly and unfolded it slowly, preparing himself for the worst. He took a deep calming breath before reading.

 

_“Dearest Cousin,_

_Matters have come up to prevent me from visiting our aunt as suggested._

_Pray, I’ll mourn privately, secluded amongst rhododendrons before Saturday’s_

_Vesper._

_I salute you.”_

 

Aramis read the note again and released the breath he’d been holding.

A load fell off his mind.

He had not alienated her.

 

His self-security instantly came back.

So he had read her right.

She wanted to see him again, hopefully as much as he wanted to.

But he’d be more careful next time.

 

He’d pry _her_ into acting on her desires before he’d move again, he’d be just charming and otherwise restrain himself, God grant him the force. 

Because, if – as he guessed – she was referring to the big rhododendron bushes behind the chapel where they separated a length of the wall against the cemetery view, this might get very hard for him – every _double-entendre_   intended.

 

It _got_ hard for Aramis, their short meeting seemingly the longest quarter of an hour he’d ever experienced.

But he was too proud to let his eagerness to deepen their acquaintance show any further.

He kept himself perfectly chivalrous, although he had to reign himself in really harshly when she moved closer and smiled at him with all she had, daring some reaction out of him.

 

But Aramis did _not_ act on his usual tendency to touch, he left the force of his feelings out of his gaze and smiled only perfectly innocent. He could play the game as well as she could!

And he felt really proud of himself for the accomplishment; for a time.

 

But he then had to find that she played the part at least equally well, if not better; which meant he had to wait long.

She didn't even reveal herself in their next appointment; nor the one after that. 

But once he had settled on just conversing with her, he actually took an interest in her also quite refreshing philosophical or more accurately political approach on morals.

From thereon they established times they’d likely be able to meet behind the chapel, at the cemetery or in the Luxembourg Gardens and left hidden letters if one of them hadn't been able to make it.

 

Both fiercely enjoyed not only the adventure of these forbidden meetings but also having finally found someone who loved to question established doctrines and indulge in all kinds of heretic themes that got more and more inappropriate each time. 

It wasn't until almost a year later that he finally got what he had eagerly been looking for all the time -

 

...his sign.


	4. Chevalier

 

 **Aramis**  

They had met at a secluded place between hedges of wild roses at the Luxemburg Gardens. Aramis had already noticed several times that she _must_ be as tactile as he was from the way she sometimes shifted towards him or occupied her hands from a sudden intended move in his direction. If he had been a girl himself, Aramis thought, they’d surely be touching each other all the time by now, like he had seen her do with her classmates.

Holding hands, locking arms around another’s waist exchanging chaste kisses with each other…

 

She had been talking about one of her friends for some time now. He was half lost in contemplation whether she traded sweet and innocent good-night kisses with her like he would with one of his sisters, on the cheek or even barely touching each other’s lips, or if her kisses were as passionate as his ones with Jean or some other of his friends. 

Aramis’ mind wandered to how _he_ would like to give her a completely different kind of goodbye-kiss later, like he had imagined many times over and never done…

He normally didn’t have to force himself upon other people; they usually tended to be magnetically drawn to him; they wanted to touch him, wanted _him_ to touch them; to hold them, to kiss them, there was no difference between his family or his friends.

 

He had never initially started approaching any of the boys in the seminary _that_ way, let alone some of the brothers. He simply hadn’t been opposed to the secret making-outs in the boys’ restroom, or the dorms, or some dark empty corridor, the side aisle of the church… he could have gone on if he had wanted to… but the longer he pictured her with some other girl – innocent as it may be – the more clearly he remembered the look in her eyes when he had kissed her hand.

 

She _had_ wanted it.

She had wanted _him_.

All the things she had said in between assured him that she didn’t hold his first advancement against him, that she liked to _explore_ and that she wasn’t afraid to be _scandalous._

 

But she hadn’t offered her hand to him again.

 

On the other hand, he hadn’t tried to approach her bodily like that afterwards. He had waited for a sign from her. Did she also wait for another sign from him? Was there a silent rule that the man always had to make the move; that he had to try again and again until she gave in?

 

Aramis had all the while continued walking next to her, listened to her talking with feigned interest so far, roaming his hand and eyes over the prickly hedges and the blooming pink and purple roses, inhaling their rich scent, watching some of the more withered petals loosen and fall under his touch while thinking.

As another cascade of burgundy rose petals rained down to the ground under his ministration he came to an enraging realisation.

He had been taught _everything_ about proper behaviour by his family and his tutors. He was highly secure about his gallant form in public, in church, even at court …

 _WHY_ had no-one ever schooled him about _improper_ behaviour at all?!

 

Aramis then and there made a silent vow to himself to become a _master_ in the improper arts.

He was determined to find out _everything_ there was to learn about it and he would start there and then!

 

He turned his attention fully back on her when in mid-sentence she suddenly stated she wished her classmate were more like him.

He stilled for half a heartbeat; having to assure himself inwardly if he had processed her words correctly. He then went on as if she hadn’t said anything special, resuming his hand’s glide over the hedge but without looking there, anymore. He now eyed _her_ carefully from the side, speculatively; waiting for her to confirm what he thought or rather _hoped_ she’d lead up to.

She grinned perfectly sweet and laid her head askance, looking fully at him now.

“Are you jealous of her, _cousin_ , dear?” she asked wryly.

Aramis held her gaze, searching for the secret meaning in the question that was hidden just out of his grasp. He had to tread delicately.

Without breaking eye-contact with her he plucked a rose blossom off the hedge with the hand still lingering thereon. He brought it up to his nose to inhale its scent and answered courteously.

“For sure! I am most envious of any time you spend in the presence of others than me, _ma rose_!”

She made a not very lady-like noise at this and continued impatiently.

“I was talking about the affection I bear for her!”

“Ahh! But, _ma chère_ , do you wish to imply that I would have to long for affection stolen from somebody else if I desired some?”

She drew her lips into an affected pout.

Aramis’ tone changed from carefully inquiring to menacingly provoking as he saw her reaction and went on.

“Even if so, do not make the mistake to assume that I - for my part - would need to settle for as modest an offer, _believe_ me!”

And with that he made a show of inhaling the aroma of the flower, still holding her gaze, his eyes turning darker, his glare piercing now.    

She managed to put her own sharp small smile back on, obviously not willing to back off either.

Neither of them was willing to submit into being the prey here too easily as the other fought to step up and take the position of the predator.  

  

“Is that so, _Cousin_? -

Please, indulge me, tell me of those _not so modest_ affections your friends bestow you with,” she teased.

 

It was Aramis’ time to have to fight to keep his smile decently in place, but he managed without wavering. Nevertheless it had been a direct hit.

He would _not_ \- for the love of god - tell her of the full nature of his indiscretions.

His usually so verbose tongue chose this exact moment to fail him inexcusably. He cursed inwardly. It was too late to defend himself verbally then, anyways.

She had perceived her advantage and moved in to take another stab.

He had to react fast, so he did so bodily and made a show of raising the rose to his nimble lips, pressing a sensual kiss to its petals.

 

“A cavalier never kisses and tells!” he bowed graciously and handed her the rose.

 

Her gaze had involuntarily dropped to the rose as he had kissed it but it hadn’t followed it back as he had handed it over, her eyes still rested on his delicately curved Cupid’s bow.

She just as involuntarily licked her lips and brought the rose up to her nose to smell at it. Her voice dropped noticeably lower.

“No, please, do tell, _Chevalier_ , do they _kiss_ you?”

 

She looked back up at his eyes and found them gone even darker than before, nearly black, a sudden tenderness in the sharp glare.

She wanted to give in, step closer, but then she saw the movement around his eyes when his assessment turned his stare into something victorious, and she regained her poise.

She thanked him with an indicated curtsey and a smile just too coquette and returned to her previous course of action.

“Do you kiss them back?”

“And if so, do you imagine it were _me_?”

 

Aramis didn’t answer right away.

He searched her eyes for a hint; tried to pry her mind for the answer she wanted to hear.

He had had her; he had been so close...

He concentrated on giving nothing away this time and noticed from the corner of his eyes how heavily she breathed; the minute shake of the rose in her fingers and grew calmer.

She was exactly as insecure as he was.

They both played at their limit, valiant opponents.

He wanted to pull the feeling of mutual adoration like a cloak around them both to end this with a deuce.  

 

He finally decided that in love probably the same rules applied as in court and that meant a gentleman should always let the lady win the battle to win the war.

So he didn’t bat an eyelid as he carefully drew closer. And with a voice tainted heavily with want and roughness he whispered:

“Yes”, while drawing closer still.

 

She stepped back to keep the distance between them, turning the rose between her fingers to hide her nervousness and asked with a last attempt of haughtiness,

“Yes, to which?”

“Yes, to all of your inquiries and those you didn’t dare to voice just yet, as well.”

He had shadowed her retreat and with one fluent feline stride, moved close enough to grip her with one hand around her waist, and pulled her close against his chest.

His gaze dropped from her widening eyes downwards.

She had managed to bring up a hand between them to try and shove Aramis away, but the hand was the one that still held the rose which was now being crushed between both their chests.

The rose blossom lingered just below her chin and above her heaving breasts. But Aramis rested his eyes on Marie’s ample lips that had turned exactly the same colour as the flower.

She opened her lips slightly, whether to breathe or to protest he didn’t know as he used that very instant to claim them with his own.

He felt her gasp against his barely opened mouth and pressed his body flush against hers. He wanted to feel her heartbeat meet the race of his own, wanted to feel it flutter against his chest.

His kiss was decent, downright chaste, his lips soft but firm against hers. Not forcing like his move had been but teasing her to partake; giving her a chance to fight back if she wished.

As she did neither, Aramis moved slightly, angling his head a for a better reach, sliding his lips a little tighter against hers and added a little suction, reminding her of the way he kissed her knuckles back then. 

 

Marie’s not-at-all-fitted school dress suddenly became way too tight and a response she never experienced before bloomed inside her own depths.

He felt so firm, his lips so tempting, she could taste some herbal tea in his breath and something else, like her own taste but more earthen, woody, feral – male – she decided, and it lured her… but could she just give-in to his second scandalous advance?!

She surely wanted to, but would it be clever?

She was undecided, yet.

 

Aramis was also torn between moving in and deepening his kiss and complete withdrawal.

His mind felt numbed with desire, all his instincts spoke to him at once, pointing out her noticeable bodily reactions, the way she felt in his arm, the sweet taste on her lips, surely from some kind of afternoon biscuits, the flowery smell of her, the way her mouth lured him to invade it…

He was sure she wanted this, she wanted _him,_ but she didn’t act on it.

And still his conscience whispered in the back of his mind, reminding himself of the man he wanted to become, he had promised his mother to become… and decided to release her.

 

He let his kiss linger another generous moment before pulling away with another suck that made an obscene sound and left their blood prickling beneath both their lips’ surfaces.

Leaning back, Aramis just caught a glimpse of the pulsing vein at her throat before his gaze was drawn back to her moist lips.

He felt his own blood pool to the surface of his body, boiling in the most outer capillaries of his lips, tingling in his fingertips and his other extremities.

 

He swallowed hard, trying to calm himself down and wanted to take another step back to leave the dangerous temptation of her closeness, when she suddenly grasped his hand.

 

Not being able to any longer deny the cruelty of being bereft of his lips so soon again, she followed the draw of the vacuum between them, desperately wanting to heal the gash his vanishing against her had opened and flung herself against him. 

She grasped his neck with the hand that still held the rose - he felt it prickling against his hair - and drew his head down to meet her eagerness.

Relieved he brought his hands up to rest one on her hip and one on her back to hold all of her tight against him while she forcefully crushed her lips against his, almost hurting him with her teeth as she forced his mouth open against hers and moaned low in her throat.

 

All scruples gone he finally let go and relished in the feeling of her kissing him back at last.

He moaned shamelessly as she sucked at his lower lip, stilled for a moment as he felt her touching his Cupid’s bow softly with just the tip of her tongue when he couldn’t hold himself back any longer and chased her tongue with his own.

Slipping his tongue against hers, he swirled it into her mouth and around hers, caught and sucked it leisurely.

When he heard her moan getting more and more exited he bent further over her to enter her deeper and ravish her mouth thoroughly.

It wasn’t before the bell of the St. Jacques announced that it was time for them to hurry back that they broke apart, both swallowing hard on an overflow of mixed saliva, both with obscenely swollen lips, panting fiercely, being deeply flushed and equally strong aroused.

 

“We really ought to go!” Marie insisted with a hoarse voice, and coughed slightly, smoothing her hands over her crinkled dress and turning the way that lead home.

Aramis nodded understandingly, not trusting his voice just yet and after a few deep breath – which unfortunately did nothing against his uncomfortable arousal – hurried after her to walk her home.

 

He took her arm like the true gentleman he had wanted to stay and walked beside her in silence.

He knew she must have felt his lust as it had grown, as pressed up against her as he had been, his hand on her hip had made sure of that as it had held her as close as had that one higher at her back.

He should have felt ashamed by the improperness of that but she had neither commented nor complained, on the contrary, she had held his head just as tight against hers, her other hand had clung on to his side for dear life.

 

He would die to know if it was true, that women got at least as wet as leaking cocks when aroused.

He would have killed to know whether she had gotten as wet as he got hard during their kiss.

God, how he _envied_ her to have been able to corporally feel his state of his lust for her.

He burned to ask.

He wanted to know, desperately.

Did she even know what it meant that she felt?

Did she want to rub her sex against his as much as he did?

It would have been _only fair_ if he could have felt the state of her excitement as well!

 

As they drew closer to Port Royal abbey and the dawning good-bye, Aramis realized that he so far hadn’t taken into account that she might not want to meet him again at all after this event.

A corner away from her abbey’s side entrance he stopped and turned to look at her. Her look was back to its usual careful guardedness, but she didn’t pull her hand away as he took it and raised it to his lips. He wanted to see her again, kiss her again, feel her again!

He _needed_ to continue meeting her. Needed answers to all his questions.

 

“Adieu, ma _chère_ ,” Aramis said with as much passion in his hoarse voice as he actually felt, and added, nearly whispered:

“Please, do allow me to see you again,” before he kissed her hand decently, tenderly.

Aramis looked up at her with eyes so dark they looked completely black in the dimming light, all his hope and want in his stare.

 

She had barely been able to hold on to her composure until then.

He had touched her deeply - in more than just one way, and that was even before this day, and if she was anything, then curious.

Curious about the way he made her feel; curious about the way he had felt against her.

And more than anything else, she wanted this, wanted him, _more_ of him.

 

Although she had sworn to herself to just practise the fickle art of flirting with the handsome boy, an art – although of course forbidden strictly – whereof the mastery was supposed to be extremely important at court, she had gotten more than just intrigued by him. And although she had sworn to herself to not get too involved and to keep her composure, she had lost against this avid assault of feelings.

She just hadn’t been prepared for the onslaught of want that he aroused in her. From what she had been told, the company of men was deemed a mere necessary nuisance amongst the high ladies, being intimate with them seldom more than marital duty or a female weapon in politics.

But if what she felt right now was any indication as to what might still _come_ , she was either incredibly weak towards male influence - which thought she refused to take into account - or the men the other women _told_ her about, were just as much a bore as the other girls were in comparison to her; and _this_ another sort of company they definitely did _not_ tell her about. She absolutely had to make some inquisitions!

 

Gazing into his smouldering eyes she couldn’t but let her mask fall for a _real_ smile as she curtsied elegantly.

“I, _mon cher Chevalier,_ think, I do feel inclined to grant your wish.”

She said, withdrew her hand with a silent content chuckle and made for her abbey, turning around quickly at the gate and while looking back at Aramis pressed a kiss to the squashed rose she still carried with her when she disappeared behind the gate.

 

\-------------------------------

 

 **Athos**  

Athos had almost fallen asleep like this. More content than he had been in a very long time with Aramis sleeping quietly in the crook of his arm, now, and his head resting against the headboard close over Aramis’. But as he was about to doze off he came awake with a jolt again.

He couldn’t sleep here, not like this, not uninvited.

He had to go.

Aramis chose that same moment to turn in his sleep, snuggled closer to Athos’ warm body beside him and flung his arm across Athos’ leg, his hand missing Athos stiffened prick by half an inch.

Athos’ heart stopped beating, he froze completely and his throat went dry.

If Aramis’ hand would touch his arousal, he would wake up! Athos was sure of that. Aramis had this instinct, like he was tuned-in to eroticism.

 

What for hell’s sake should he tell Aramis, then, why he was here, _in his bed_?

What _does_ one tell his brother in such an intricate situation?! Aramis was the expert in such questions…

 

But Aramis pulled his hand back under his cheek and resumed sleeping, snoring softly.

 

That had been close. 

Athos started berating himself inwardly for his unseemly intrusion in his friend’s privacy.

He was such an imbecile!

 

He carefully peeled himself away from Aramis, anxious not to wake him, and sat up.

His head spun… more than from the usual hung-over dizziness as he balanced to sit on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees; his head heavy in his hands.

 

How had it come to this?

 

His addiction had got the better of him.

He had let himself get reckless, seduced by this opportunity; Aramis not only at home and alone, but asleep, drunk...

 _Bloody pest_ , he had gotten high on this whole frivolous situation.

 

He must have totally lost his mind behaving so imprudently.   

He got up, stumbled from the bed on wobbling knees and dressed himself quickly.

Athos then turned another lingering gaze towards his sleeping friend, making sure he really still slept, and did what he should have done hours ago - leave.

 

He didn’t remember his hasty walk home close to the end of the night, he didn’t remember entering his room, losing his coat and boots or finding the wine bottle beneath his bed, blindly, but he remembered every detail from before.

He remembered how glorious his friend had looked in the pale moonlight, the sheet dangerously low, hiding close to nothing of his features anyways, sweaty as he had been; his perfect abs completely lain bare, his whole body writhing beneath the pressure of his martyring dream… 

Athos emptied the bottle and let himself fall back on his bed wishing desperately for a few hours of peaceful sleep.

He wiggled and pulled to strip off his breeches and tugged his own plaid around himself, hugging it crushingly close.

 

How good it had felt when Aramis had finally settled in his sleep, his slippery shoulder losing the tension under his hand, his desperate moans finally subsiding; his adorable curls tickling against his lips as he tossed his head, smelling like leather, gun powder, horse and salt and _Aramis._

 

Athos sneaked his hand out of his plaid cocoon and reached for the discarded breeches to fetch his hand kerchief. He closed his eyes in a last attempt of denial as he brought it up and pressed it crushed in his fist against his forehead.

He forced himself to inhale and exhale.

Whom was he trying to convince that there even was the slightest hint of a chance he’d just put it back…

He slowly opened his fist and let the rectangle piece of cloth unfold itself in his hand.

One seam he still pressed against his brow, the rest poured out of his hand and unfurled over his face. He groaned as the scent reached his brain, made his nostrils flare and his prick swell.

He turned around to throw himself heavily on his belly, the kerchief now on his pillow under him.

He let his forehead rest on it, inhaling deeply, smelling Aramis, his sweat, his pain, luxuriating in the effect it had on his brain, his body and his rapidly hardening cock and started moving his slender hips against his mattress; slowly at first, relishing in the scent, in the memory; but then jerkier, faster.

He groaned into the kerchief, angry about what he had done, frustrated about the effect this little piece of cloth had on him and helplessly because it was Aramis’ effect on him, always had been… 

 

He came artlessly, with Aramis’ scent in his mouth, his cry muffled by the kerchief, crushed between Athos’ head and the pillow.


	5. Acolyte

**Aramis**

Aramis leaned against the wall in the dark side aisle of St. Jacques church he was supposed to be sweeping this evening after the Compline.

The boy who had been on altar duties that night was kneeling between his legs, trying to open Aramis’ breeches hurriedly, fumbling awkwardly with the laces in his haste.

 

“Parbleu! Was it just me or have these psalms been the longest we have ever had to endure before the night?” the boy asked and finally managed to open the laces enough to free the head of Aramis’ throbbing erection.

“He went on and on… it felt like forever, and I had to keep a straight face with you shameless demon motioning, indicating all this…”

 

“Sh, sh, sh!” Aramis straightened up and stopped him with his index finger against the boy’s lips.

 

He had been excruciatingly hard since his earlier meeting with Marie and had been giving indecent signs during the whole mass towards his friend in the front of the church. The other had barely been able to stay focused and look unimpressed, with where he stood, trying to avoid Aramis’ stare and failing completely of course, his own gaze always returning all too soon to glance longingly across to where Aramis was seated with the others, behind the monks.

 

“Écoute, _mon cher_ , everything is silent, now. It is just us.” purred Aramis.

“No one will come looking for us for at least an hour…”

 

He stroked his hand lovingly through the blond curls of the other boy, moving his hand just lightly on top of the boy’s head, caressing and without any pressure.

He forced himself not to cup the back of the boy’s head harshly and move him towards his groin like he’d love to do, now.

 

No, he stayed dutifully calm, leaning back against the wall, leaving whatever the boy would decide to do to his own free will and his own initiative. He needed to control himself in the future, not for this boy - he knew him already better than that – no, but to practice how to behave properly around another human being while being so stupefying needy.

He wanted to learn to stay gentlemanly, chivalrous!

 

In future, he wouldn’t always be able to allow himself _everything_ , to let himself go like he loved to, turning maybe a little _too_ intense in that state, forceful, some might even say vicious, although he’d call it passionate…

No, he’d sworn to his mother never to be rough and hot-headed around girls. He had to keep his mind focused. He let his head sink back against the wall as well and closed his eyes.

 

The boy moved closer, braced his hands on Aramis’ hips and licked slowly all around the head of his cock before delving with the tip of his tongue into the leaking indention in the middle of it.

Aramis withdrew his hand from the head of the boy and tried to find a halt in the wall behind him with his fingers to hold himself upright where he leant. A moan escaped him, and then he hissed, drawing a careful breath in as the boy wrapped his lips around his glans as if it were a sugar popsicle.

Now it was the boy's turn to groan as he sucked at the little hole to slurp in the salty essence that had started to run.

He twirled his tongue to slather the leaking fluid around Aramis’ cock, taking him wide in as he did so and then drew back again.

 

As a chill breeze touched his wet cock, Aramis opened his eyes to the sight of the other boy removing his own lower wear.

He couldn’t resist a slow smile.

 

“Do you really think we should do _this_ … _here_!?”

 

“Oh, René, _chéri_ , did you think I’d let you wind me up this whole excruciatingly long time and then just have me do as you please without you lazy dog lifting as much as your dick? _Non_. Oh, no!”

 

He stepped back into Aramis’ space without any clothing covering his lower parts, his erection jutting obscenely under his chemise.

He took Aramis’ right hand and sucked his first three fingers into his mouth, coating them in his spittle.

 

Aramis loathed getting away from the wall but thought of his earlier best intentions and pushed himself forward.

The need in the other boy’s eyes was contagious, it reminded him of his own, and he pulled his wet hand out of the other’s mouth and reversed their places, stepping around while pushing the other boy face first against the wall.

He pressed his left forearm against the other boy’s shoulder blades to hold him in place and spit substantially on his fingers to add to the lubrication before he lined his first finger up.

The boy gasped as Aramis slowly entered him with his index finger. Aramis pushed and pushed, all the way in, moaning lowly as he thought about pushing into Marie this way.

 

Would she feel as tight as Pierre did?

Would her vulva feel much different?

What would her own wetness be like?

Would it be enough to enter her without needing supplemental lubrication?

What would it taste like?

 

And then he sighed, remembering that even if he ever got this _close_ to her, he would never bring it over him to actually enter her there, being the man he wanted to be, as she was a noble woman and those were supposed to be _whole and untouched_ when they married...

Things a boy was taught to respect when he grew up with sisters and maids.

 

But her wetness…, he could be allowed to taste her without needing to compromise her.

And he could still enter her like a boy, if she liked him to.

 

Did girls do _this_ as well, he asked himself, bringing each other off, entering each other with their fingers… or even candles?

During his contemplations, Aramis had prepared the boy enough to have his middle finger added into him and took a deep breath to calm his hand before he steadily pushed in with two long fingers.

 

“Valoir, D’Herblay! You lecherous rabbits!!”

 

The monk, both boys with a shock recognised as Père Auguste, came striding up towards them from the main aisle.

 

Aramis pulled out his hand, and let his head fall forward in resignation, bumping the other boy’s lightly with it. The other boy turned around and looked quite stricken, his eyes wide with fear.

Of course, Aramis could kick himself, would Père Auguste wait in the room where the priests – and altar boys – changed after mass, when _Pierre_ was on duty, and eventually come searching for him.

 

Aramis had not considered that, because usually the boys were not under such scrutiny. Most of the brothers and priests did not care for them other than give them a healthy – or in his case also not so healthy anymore – thrashing when they thought fitting, and most of his friends, including Aramis himself, were not exactly the tractable and obedient kind of boy _those_ men took for their _ministrations_ of any _other_ kind.

 

But Pierre, he was one of the very few silent, cooperative, pretty and _blond_ boys. The ones Père Auguste preferred.

It was not often that Aramis wished, he’d rather be brought to the father superior - never, actually - but he had also never been caught by Père Auguste before.

 

Aramis gulped hard, trying not to imagine what ghastliness might loom ahead. The accounts of _his_ punishments were a whole different story to those he usually had to endure.

One of the few boys to have first-hand knowledge about those penalisations huddled behind him and had started to tremble like an aspen leaf.

Aramis straightened up and positioned himself between Pierre and the priest, trying to shield the other’s body from sight with his own.

 

“It was my fault. I forced him.”

Aramis said in a cool voice.

 

Pierre tentatively reached out for Aramis from behind his back, whispering pleadingly to him to stop and the fear in the boy’s thin voice made him go cold all over.

 

“Was it, now?” Père Auguste inquired with a sneer and stepped closer.

He pulled Aramis to the side by his upper arm and stared down at the exposed other boy who started to run for his discarded legwear but the old man was faster, catching him by his wrist and stopping him.

 

“Pray, tell me, _boy,_ how come that the one of you who is still wearing his proper attire will be accused to be the one carrying the blame while the one with his prick out and presenting his unclean cloaca to inflict the devil’s lust upon the innocent shall be without iniquity?”

 

Pierre looked so small and intimidated, he was close to crying, Aramis could see.

 

“It wasn’t like that!” Aramis tried to contradict and was slapped hard in the face for his efforts.

 

“As you so eagerly _volunteer_ to bear your part of the blame, who am I to disincline.”

 

Père Auguste said and grabbed them both by their ears and pulled them after him through the church, back to the rooms behind the altar, leaving Pierre barely enough room to collect his trousers.

 

Behind the changing room lay some dark and secluded offices, to one of which both boys were dragged. 

The priest pushed the boys into the dark room, careful to keep a tight hold of Pierre while he lit a few candles.

Aramis could clearly have run away, in this moment, and he knew it. But he hesitated, reluctant to leave his brother in crime, who would evidently be the main victim here, alone. The whole situation had occurred on his initiation, after all.

 

The old man had obviously taken Aramis’ highly possible flight risk into consideration and stared at him assessing before he moved back to close and bolt the door.

Aramis was pretty sure he could help the other boy to avoid the worst. He just had to convince the other to join him when he took his stand and then they could flee together, they were two against one, in the end, and not that little and weak…

 

He pulled himself more upright and looked at Pierre reassuringly.

Together, they would overpower Père Auguste.

 

Said man saw the resistance building up in Aramis stance and expression and took a firm hold of Pierre’s chin. He looked solely at Aramis as he slapped the other boy so hard his whole upper body flew to the side and he let out a high pitched howl of pain.

 

“You, _filth_ ,” Père Auguste hissed menacingly, addressing Pierre without taking his eyes off Aramis, “go behind the desk and get the ropes!”

 

Aramis felt a shiver run down his back.

On second thought, what would happen, when Pierre was too afraid to act against the priest and was not going to be much of a help at all and he was being tied up…

 

He should have run when he could.  

                                                                                                                        

\-------------------------------

 

**Athos**

He was early on the training field, not with a wooden sword but with an edged weapon, hacking and slaying at rapidly dissolving straw targets.

He was busy slaughtering the third one when suddenly a blade intercepted his last lethal thrust.

 

“ _Easy_ , Athos, what’s bitten you to be so bitter this early of the day?”

 

It was Porthos and he looked rather worried at his friend.

Usually, Athos preferred to move slowly and treat his head with care the morning after a long night of drinking… which was pretty much every morning…

 

For a second, Athos looked as if he’d simply pull his rapier free and continue his devastation, but then he looked about, taking in the fallen straw opponents, heaved a deep sigh and let his sword-hand sink.

 

Porthos offered his skin with its heavily watered content to Athos, hoping some hydration would help to better his condition - whatever it was at that moment.

Reluctantly Athos took a swig and instantly made a disapproving face at the taste of the thinned slop, holding out the skin impatiently for Porthos to take back.

 

“Maybe you’d become a decent fencer as well, eventually, if you ever took some time practising your bout.” Athos snapped around the foul taste in his mouth.

Porthos retracted his blade and frowned at the other. So he was in an especially bad mood, today. Normally he’d just be getting the silent treatment or the extended scowl.

 

Porthos took a step back and willed Aramis to arrive; trusting his friend’s diplomatic skill and charm would assuage Athos’ animosities. He usually had that effect on people in general, and if any one, Aramis was the one you could safely be let near Athos, even when he was hurt, even when he was in wrath.

Would it be anyone else than Aramis, Porthos would have been highly jealous of his influence on Athos, but nobody could not empathise in the allaying abilities their healer had. 

 

Athos turned back to his target, but his anger had subsided as far as his consciousness had partly returned. It was still early but he already felt the sun’s first rays announcing another too hot day. He was uncomfortably sweaty already and the throbbing pain of something similar to a hungover crept back into the depth of his skull.

With a defeated sigh he sheathed his rapier and retreated to the side-line of the fencing field, where he had left his doublet and his hat on a battered wooden bench in the still darker shadows.

In a few hours the whole field would be drenched in the blazing sun, making the training close to unbearable. Fortunately, he was already done training and would make sure to avoid any group activities here for the rest of the day… not that this was something any other Musketeers would be allowed to do… nor was he, _formally_.

 

Shooting practise was on the schedule, led by their best marksman, _of course_ , and Athos was keen on getting away and getting some assignment somewhere else – _anywhere_ else – as soon as the captain would be up and available.

He felt Porthos’ poking eyes on his back as he put on his hat to shade his eyes… not from the sun alone. The other was already readying his guns and preparing extra ammunition for shooting practise as more Musketeers turned up chatting and carrying Muskets, targets and all kinds of gear… high time to leave.

 

Athos grabbed his doublet and the rest of his weaponry and went to see M. de Tréville, hoping their captain could be convinced to send him on an assignment…

He took a long detour as to neither pass the armoury nor any of his milling comrades and then skulked through the stables from the rear entrance to make sure everyone had already left the garrison for their training or their other duties before he arrived at the main court that led to the captain’s office.

 

It was really not his day, he decided as he finally stepped into the garrison courtyard, and instantly shrank back into the shadows of the stables’ roof.

Beneath the stairwell that let up to the captain’s office, their old cook Serge, who apparently just had finished cleaning all remains of a breakfast away from the community table outside under their captain’s balcony, was being held back from retreating to his pantry by Aramis.

 

“Please, I beg you, my dear friend,” Aramis crooned, “just a quick drink and little morsel for your favourite man!”

 

“Tsk!” Serge huffed.

 

“Aramis, you really can’t expect me to drop all my other chores every time you turn up late because you preferred to have a tumble in someone’s sheets!”  

         

That obviously stung.

 

Aramis’ look turned desperate and he took a more humble approach.

“Please, Serge, I really didn’t have that good a night and I assure you, there was no other person involved… I beseech you!”

 

Usually, Athos’d say that if someone deserved a little chastisement, it was Aramis…

But _usually_ , Serge didn’t mind Aramis’ escapades at all.

 

Serge had a soft spot for Aramis - _like everyone it seemed,_ thought Athos dryly - and would do him an extra favour, anytime, but in the recent times, Aramis had been getting worse than usual, overstepping the boundaries just a few times too much, obviously. 

 

But Athos _knew_ that Aramis wasn’t lying this time.

After all, he’d been _there_ and very well remembered the desperate state his friend had been in.

 _But he couldn’t well admit that…_ he thought with a bitter after-taste that might have lingered from Porthos’ muck…

 

Athos had planned to hide until he could pass unseen, but his heart reacted to Aramis’ honest pleading before his mind could take back control.

 

_Damn it._

                                                                                     

Serge had pulled his arm free and turned to clear the last wooden plates away as Athos stepped out of his shadows.

Aramis had seen his movement from the corner of his eyes and turned his head. He didn’t even turn his body that was hanging faintly against the doorframe. He looked miserable and slightly sick, but hope sparked beautifully in his exhausted looking eyes as he perceived his friend, and the warm flicker Athos saw there made his heart jump treacherously.

 

_He was doomed._

 

He quickly threw his hat on the table and strolled over to them.

“Ah, Serge, good that you’re still on it. I had urgent business this morning and almost feared I wouldn’t be able to get a bite anymore, my apologies for being so late…”

 

With that he sat down at the table in his most aristocratic manner and looked at the addressed cook expectantly.

“But…” Serge hesitated, “When do _you_ ever break a fast, Master Athos?!”

 

Athos knew he was regarded higher than any other Musketeer beside their captain, but he must have confused the old man profoundly with his bearing to address him like this.

Good, as long as Aramis would still be fed. He really looked miserable.

 

“He mostly just grabs a bite off me!” Aramis concurred and tried to flash his usual impish smile although it didn’t actually reach his eyes, today.

Serge huffed and went inside shaking his head.

 

Athos’ heart had skipped a beat at that saucy comment while Aramis smiled conspiratorially and sauntered over to sit across Athos. His smile became warmer and he reached out to clasp Athos’ wrist in a thankful greeting. Athos carefully moved his arm to shift the other’s fingers off his betraying pulse as he returned the gesture, nodding curtly.

Aramis’ eyes sparkled happily and conveyed such profound thankfulness as he patted Athos’ other shoulder in addition as he settled down that Athos instantly felt ashamed that he had wished to escape his friend at first.

They were more than friends, after all, _inseparable_ , and they owed each other loyalty in such matters! _All for one..._

 

He returned the warm-hearted regard levelly and forced his heart to still.

Aramis couldn’t know how deeply he failed his trust in fact…

 

“Truly, my friend,…”

Aramis proclaimed in his low voice, honeyed by his emotions, underlining his gaze with a smile to melt snow,

“…I could _kiss_ you right now!”

 

Athos pulled back his hand hurriedly, lest his pulse betrayed him after all, with his heart starting to beat so hard at that thought.

He occupied his hand with reclaiming his hat and pulled it back on, careful to drag it deep over his eyes, hoping that Aramis had missed the way his eyes had roamed over his lips as he had tried to avert his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably on his bench as he forced back the thought of the implicated action actually carried out right then…

 

_Aramis, his eyes darkening sensually, leaning over the table, reaching out to cup his neck and draw their heads together, meeting his slightly parted lips with his own, firm and warm, decent, sucking just so slightly before pulling back with the most beautiful of sounds and sitting back down …_

 

Fortunately, Aramis read all the signs wrong as he soothed,

“It was a _jest_ , Athos, calm down!”,

before he leaned back when Serge arrived with some food for them.

 

Athos’ lips curled up on one corner to his common dry half-smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The seventh chapter receives an **Abusive Violence & Rape/Non-Con ** warning at the beginning!
> 
> I'd appreciate your input in the comments about how explicitly you'd like to read that or if you preferred it only being mentioned.


	6. Pupil

**Athos**

It had turned out to be a pleasant day with a pleasant evening following after all.

Aramis had gotten a bit better after eating breakfast and doing what he loved second best… shooting, but he hadn’t enjoyed leading the musket training as much as he usually did and was not his carefree self, overall. Athos longed to know what was on his mind, if it was some new love that went badly or if it had something to do with his nightmares.

 

In the early evening, the three of them sat on a small table in a dark corner in their favourite tavern together; a candle was flickering homely and they were drinking bitter ale. Athos sat with them, wanting to keep a closer eye on Aramis instead of drinking himself into a stupor on his own and even Porthos had stayed instead of getting into trouble playing cards or throwing dice.

He probably also felt that Aramis wasn’t at his best mood and Athos was thankful for that, the other one being so much better at talking to Aramis and trying to cheer him up.

This evening it didn’t help much, though. Aramis didn’t even throw as much as a fleeting glance towards their lovely serving wench, and when Porthos pointed that out laughingly and shoved him amicably with his shoulder, Aramis smiled dutifully but it still didn’t reach his eyes.  

When he called it a night quite early, it seemed clear that he had another ensuing appointment, which was not an uncommon thing in itself, but normally he was more thrilled or eager when he bid his untimely farewell on a night like this. No flourished wave, no greeting smile, not even to their wench, he just put on his hat, nodded to them and left.

Both men looked after him and then exchanged questioning looks.

“You know what the hell is wrong with him?” Porthos inquired.

Athos stayed silent and just indicated a vague shake of his head.

 “Yeah,” Porthos acknowledged, “me neither – well, a good fuck will hopefully restore his mood!”

Athos averted his eyes and twisted his mouth in distaste, as much because of the thought itself as of the vocabulary used.

Also… he didn’t think so.

His eyes shifted towards the door, following their friend who had already left as if his trace still lingered.

 

There were different stages of moods that usually triggered certain subsequent measures Aramis would adopt.

But this was beyond what a simple copulation could heal, Athos was ready to bet.

 

With Aramis no longer present, and Porthos looking longingly over to the tables where comrades of them were gambling, now, Athos downed his cup, patted Porthos farewell on his pauldron and got up to follow Aramis to at least confirm his whereabouts.

He wanted to make sure his friend didn’t take some _overly_ stupid measures, as Aramis loved to gamble as well… but in very different ways.

 

Despite his uneasy feeling regarding the state of Aramis, Athos felt relieved when he left the tavern.

The air outside was nothing near cool, yet, but at least a little refreshing in comparison to the heat of the day or the stuffy oppressiveness of the guest room.

Athos inhaled deeply trying to clear his head.

The question was, where had Aramis gone to?

Athos knew that underneath his charming and mild façade, Aramis hid a very unhealthy self-destructive and sometimes abusive strain.

 

Sometimes, when he was in a very subdued mood, he just settled for punishing himself with lots of indulgence prayers; sometimes he beat himself with his correction cord, a relic of his clerical days… although he could carry that way too far as well, sometimes, beating himself bloody… as Athos had witnessed by the remnants once…

But the worst engagements where, when he called upon the ladies he _knew_ bore a high risk of getting caught with or even of exposing him themselves to another lover, guardian or even husband. Aramis sometimes _knew_ of a returning husband that same night and took his chances nevertheless.

Athos cursed inwardly thinking of an especially precarious situation including a mistress of the cardinal himself.

He suspected that his friend loved the adrenaline rush just as much as his fulfilment.

He knew _for sure_ , Aramis loved violence and a fight as much as sex and he had seen him provoke many a duel of life and death.

 

After all, that’s how they initially met…

 

When Athos had agreed to take him in to teach him how to fight, it had been for such a duel exactly. Of course, Aramis hadn’t told him that little detail, back then, but Athos had seen it in his eyes when the other had approached the Musketeers for a fencing master.

As soon as he had laid eyes on Aramis, he had seen, this young man was trouble. But he had known one thing for sure, already there and then:

He didn’t want him to die if he could prevent it!

Thankfully, and with that ensuring his interlocutory survival, it had soon turned out that Aramis was a master pupil.

Obviously of a noble upbringing, he already knew the basics, but his progress under Athos’ tutorage had been extraordinary. He had shown a natural talent with his appertaining balance and grace, combined with dexterity and swiftness. He fenced so well in such short a time, it elated Athos immensely. That his _real_ talent would only reveal itself later, when he had been handed a pistol, still made Athos smile indulgently.

But it was Aramis’ devotion to the training, and the fierceness with which he fought that had even Porthos change his mind about the young man he had initially marked down as a useless peacock. Athos’ tall shadow soon abandoned his prejudice and contributed some dirty fighting tricks to the syllabus.

Aramis quickly became a real threat, lethal, not only to both their sanity, but also to other people.

 

Athos had feared for him nevertheless… the first few times.

 

The very first time, Aramis hadn’t told him and had gone on his own.

It had been so senseless of him and Athos still remembered his utter dismay when he became aware – much too late.

Aramis had stood in his doorway, covered in blood…

Athos’ heart had stopped beating as he thought it were _his_ …

 

He had seen it dawning in Aramis’ eyes, then, the exhilaration, the blood lust …

It had stirred something inside him, low and dark, something dormant, almost forgotten.

It had made him _want_ … to grab him, shake some sense into him, punch him, _ravish him…  
_

But Athos knew what emotions could cost, _just too well,_ especially in battle.  

After that he had made Aramis _swear an oath_ to take him and Porthos with him as his adjutants if he wanted to duel, _always_.

 

He had been so glad when the young man had finished his first “business” unharmed, and he had actually been _proud_ when Aramis had fearlessly entered another duel not much later, although his opponent had been a fighter much more accomplished than Aramis had been, then. But Aramis had kept his word and had told them, and taken them along, _at least_.

 

Athos had stood at the side-line of the little lawn field between the large hedges behind the Petit Luxembourg, a place common for this sort of interaction, where the two duellists had taken their places.

Porthos had stood on his toes next to him, vibrating with energy, cursing Aramis, cursing to himself, having been ready to intervene at any second. That had been when Athos had realised that Porthos had grown just as _fond_ of Aramis as he had.

But Athos had laid a restraining hand on Porthos’ shoulder.

He stuck to rules.

Always.

… _Even if it meant the death of a beloved one…_

 

He had ordered Porthos to stand back by convincing him that Aramis would well able to handle himself.

But in reality…

In reality Athos had grown cold and very still inside.

 

He had not been so sure of Aramis’ odds to survive, _at all,_ then, as he hoped at least Aramis had been, although - knowing Aramis much better now - he was convinced, in retrospect, that the other had knowingly gambled on his death, back then… after what had happened, after having lost his old life… and maybe much more.

That had also been when Athos had experienced the _dread_ for the first time.

The feeling of his heart which he had thought hardened to stone long ago, sink into the depth of his stomach and tearing his lungs down with it on its way, making it unable to breathe any longer for him.

 

He would never forget these horrible seconds when the other combatant had charged and Aramis had not moved.

Not even batted a single lash.

 

Athos’ heart had stopped beating completely.

The fear of losing his pupil had been unusual overwhelming.

 

He had stood frozen to the spot as Porthos had clutched his arm, gripping way too hard, leaving bruises and betraying his equally strong feelings for their pupil.

 

Aramis hadn’t moved until the very last blink of an eye.

But then...

He had diverted the brutal thrust of his attacking opponent in a perfect parry, answering it with a deadly stab of his own in the same movement, and finished the stroke with an elegant flourish in consummate pose.

 

Porthos had laughed out loud, and showing all of his relief, had clapped Athos deftly on the back, but Athos had just stood there, rooted to the spot, glowering grimly.

 

Aramis had then dropped to one knee to pronounce absolution over his opponent’s dying body and crossed himself, sending a silent prayer heavenwards before turning to his teachers.

And as he saw Aramis walking calmly towards them, the fire still kindling in his dark eyes and his angelic face gleaming beautifully in the ascending moon of the early dusk, rendering his victorious smile into something flickering with cruelty, something malevolent, Athos had gulped heavily, realising much too late what kind of devil he had created.

 _That’s what fallen angels are_ , his mind helpfully supplied.

 

Athos had been reminded of a psalm that had appeared in the back of his mind over and over again, after _her_ …  

 

_Each one is tempted when he is carried away and enticed by his own evil desire._

_But then, when that malign lust has conceived, it gives birth to sin;_

_And when sin is accomplished, it brings forth death._

 

He had comprehended, then, suddenly, like scales falling from his eyes that he had miserably failed to grasp its full meaning, before. The whole extent of the concept only unfurling before him as he had to avow that _this_ temptation he would never be able to resist…

 

     _No wonder, for the devil disguises himself as an angel of light…_

 

\-------------------------------

**Aramis**

Earlier that day, Aramis had received a little notice from one of his “patronesses” that she would drop by in the evening, asking him to be present.

He had contemplated not being at home.

 

The heat didn’t affect him as much as it did his comrades, and he usually wasn’t opposed to using these tropical summer nights for some even more sudatory action in the relatively pleasant climate of his rooms and garden, but he wasn’t in the mood today. He had not slept well the last few nights as the nightmares haunted him, again.

There were times when thought he’d finally be freed of them. It had gotten so much better since he had joined the Musketeers, there had been months where he had slept quietly, in peace, side by side with his comrades-in-arms or in the arms of a wealthy mistress… joining the Musketeers had been a good decision for his peace of mind.

This time it had been so long, he thought he’d left it all behind, for good, he had enjoyed life, barely being on the edge, killing only very few people, all of them enemies of the crown he had been forced to take down in duty, everything had looked so bright… but now they were back.

Sometimes he thought they were divine punishment, sent to him to atone for his many sins and maybe they got worse, again, when he added to the sinning in the wrong way.

He had wanted to go and pray, to beg for absolution, to ask what it would take this time to be freed of the remembrance and cleanse his soul enough to be able to sleep peacefully again. There was only one person he could talk to, who would take his confession although he wouldn’t even need it.

But that would have to wait.

 

He tried to motivate himself to go back home as he had been requested to do.

He wasn’t really willing to risk losing one of his best customers of his translations and poetry which still added considerably to his not too profuse salary. Furthermore, the lady in question was young and beautiful and thankfully in possession of a very rich and very busy husband, next to three other lovers...

If she called upon him, which wasn’t that often, thanks to her other providers of services, he had to entertain her at least so far that he wasn’t crossed out of her payroll entirely.

So he was home, had refreshed himself and received the lady courteously as she knocked on his door.

 

He let her in with a flourish of his hand and a graceful bow and slowly closed the door behind her, still in thoughts how to evade the inevitable as far as possible as the lady rushed further into his sitting room.

 

\-------------------------------

**Athos**

He wasn’t sure where Aramis had planned to go, but he would search him in the most likely places, his most favourite chapel, the library of the Jesuit novitiate in the Rue du Pot-de-Fer, or his quarters, hoping to find him there.

He took the route down Rue St. Marguerite to the Rue Saint-Père and Aramis’ favourite chapel, the ancient and sombre chapel Saint-Pierre.

As he passed the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés he wondered – not for the first time – why Aramis preferred the austere ancient chapel to the magnificent church of the abbey just around the corner, with its huge marble columns and capitals that sported the strangest combination of human and animal heads as well as birds and harpies, as Aramis had once told a wondering Porthos in passing.

Aramis loved the lush luxuries of the rich catholic churches, the divine sculptures, the iconic art, the amounts of glittering gold, the true to life Jesuses mounted as near to naked as possible to their crosses…

He usually he went for the most opulent and lush of choices of whatever it was in question.

 

But Athos had found Aramis more than once in this unlikely chapel, not answering a single question as of why.

If he wanted sparse, he could at least go for the old little parish church Saint-Sulpice in the same street as their garrison for his prayers, making him much more convenient to find as Athos had pointed out on several occasions, getting nothing but a disdainful snort in answer.

Why it had to be Saint-Pierre remained one of his many secrets.

 

The streets were not yet completely empty at this time of evening, but there weren’t too many passers-by left on his way and those who perceived Athos hurried past or changed the side of the street. And right they were, a King’s Musketeer - as well as a red guard with as dark a bearing as his by the way - could mean as much trouble as a simple burglar these days, especially after dark.

He had hoped to find Aramis inside, on his knees, in his customary spot in the third pew on the left side, his favourite place to pray, but he found the chapel completely empty.

He was none the luckier at the Jesuits’ library.

 

Having ruled out the more harmless courses of action Aramis would most probably pursue, Athos’ thoughts mercilessly trained back to his initial musings…

He shouldn’t have been surprised, thus, entering the Rue de Vaugirard from the west side, perceiving, a few corners away from Aramis’ lodgings, a wealthily decorated carriage parked at one of the entrances of the Petit-Luxembourg.

A valet in dark coloured livery was pretending to walk five little white lap dogs of fashion, which meant he was leaning obviously bored against a tree and the little herd was milling around him yelping irritatingly.

So Aramis did have a visitor.

 

\-------------------------------

**Aramis**

Aramis straightened from his bow and managed to put on his radiant smile.

“Madame Marchand.”

“ _Mon mignon_ ,” she turned towards Aramis, throwing her gloves and her hat on a chair while starting to unbutton her cloak, “how often do I have to ask you to call me Collette.”

Aramis drew close to her to take her cloak and politely answered “Always at least once more, Madame,” while hanging the cloak over the backrest of his chair to join her other garments.

“A King’s Musketeer, indeed,” she sneered, “always so formal…”

She turned her head to the direction she knew his bedroom to be.

“I like to be polite.” Aramis answered and took her hand to kiss it commendably, reaffirming the aforementioned while forestalling her progress into the other room.

 

With his free hand he pulled another chair from the table and coaxed her to sit down.

“How can I be of service to you?” he asked in his most innocent voice while pouring her a cup of his strongest Anjou wine and presented it to her with a smile not half as innocently before he turned around to pick up one of his current translations.

She took a sip of the wine, pursed her lips and smiled benevolently.

“I do not actually have a need of your services in writing…”

 

“Ah,” Aramis stashed the paper he was holding back from whence he took it and picked up a book of psalms seemingly contemplating what she might be referring to.

“A religious discourse, mayhap?” Aramis inquired and started reading from an episode of Judith.

 

She took another sip of the wine and leaned back in her chair, not overly interested in his game.

“Not really. My interests are more of a… mundane… sort, tonight.”

 

“Hm, Madame, of a philosophical nature, then?” He replaced the psalms into one of his shelves.

 “I was thinking a little more _linguistic_ …” she said, resting her tongue on the rim of her cup.

Aramis turned back to her with a little book of poetry in his hand and started reciting a poem by heart before opening it.

     " _I seek a pearl of rarest worth,_

_By the shore of some bright wave,_

_A lonely gem whose wondrous birth_

_Radiance to all nature gave.”_

 

He looked back up at her not actually needing to see her gesture to have gotten her message.

But he wasn’t as shallow as she was, her - preferring in his assessment probably _L’Huître_ over _La Perle -_ , but if she had wanted an easy fuck she could have taken her gardener… so he continued, needing the poetry to find his balance as much as his gusto.

_"Thou bright pearl, excell’st each gem_

_In proud nature’s diadem,_

_Yet a captive lov’st to dwell,_

_Hid within thy cavern shell;”_

 

She downed the rest of the content of her cup while Aramis took a step towards her, holding the open book in his hands, but not needing to look down in it to actually read the verses, he kept her eyes prisoner with his gaze as he drew closer.

_"Thou admit’st within thy cave,_

_That bright stranger of a wave._

_As he dwells and hardens there_

_For the gem so pure and fair….”_

 

He stepped back up to her as she set her cup down to the floor.

He stood before her, close enough to touch now, and let her roam her hands over the front of his hips and thighs.

"Not _that_ much of a stranger, I might hope, but bright you are indeed..." she crooned, "...as for the second part..." she let her hands roam over his loins.

 

He intercepted both of her hands with his left before they could determine his actually not very hard state.

“So, you are looking for more of an _oral_ tutoring, tonight, I take?” he teased, slamming the book shut with his right.

She smiled up at him hungrily, took the book from his hands and dropped that to the floor as well.

 

With his left arm, Aramis cleared the table in one swipe, with the other he gripped her by her waist, lifted her up from the chair and sat her on that table.

She moaned greedily as he sank to his knees between her thighs and slowly stroked along her legs with both his hands, from her feet over her delicate ankles, shins, knees and thighs, all the way up to her lap gathering her skirts up along the way.

She let herself fall back on her elbows as he grasped around her thighs and pulled her forward upon his face.

 

\-------------------------------

**Athos**

“Damn it, Aramis!” Athos groaned, as if in pain.

 

If _he_ knew that these five little lap lappers belonged to the _married_ minx of Madame Marchand, any-bloody-body else could count two and two together as well.

This was exactly that kind of situation he had been trying to talk Aramis out of.

He stormed on, past Aramis’ lodgings and on towards his own.

He needed another bottle of wine, several, actually, and he needed to be alone.

 

As he changed the side of the street to turn into Rue Férou he couldn’t help turning back and looking towards Aramis’ house, thinking about the sycamore tree in Aramis’ garden.

Was it dark enough to squeeze though the hedge and hide behind the tree? Dark enough to risk a peep just to make sure Aramis was alright?

 _Just alright_ … his consciousness supplied sarcastically. Maybe the lady was just there to order a sonnet of sort and would be gone, soon… _Leaving him to do what?!_

And if not? Would he want to stay and see what happened within… _again?_

_Aramis…_

He turned around, taking a few shaky steps in the direction of the hedge that surrounded his friend’s garden.

And what if Aramis had taken her into his shady little garden in this weather…?

He heard a woman give a guttural squall.

 

Athos shook himself out of his inner debate and he clutched his forehead, what had he been thinking!

He turned around and rushed on to his own quarters.

 

\-------------------------------

**Aramis**

Aramis had performed satisfactorily, as was expected of him, no less - but also, surprisingly, no more either.

Neither had he invited her to his bedroom nor had he taken the time to make her come more than twice… or even thought about taking his own pleasure along the way.

He had just taken her apart on the table in his sitting room with his mouth alone as he had suggested.

 

It had been obvious that she would have preferred for him to completely slip in, but he had convinced her with the skill of his tongue to leave it to this, especially as he hadn’t been sure if he’d have gotten himself up at all in his mood.

He had made up for this with all his prowess but had been more than glad when she had announced even before her first orgasm that she would be expected back in due time and that he could leave the fancy work to be saved up for the next time.

 

So he had seen her out not even an hour later, washed thoroughly, and then paced his rooms restlessly.

He contemplated going to the chapel, now, as had been his original plan, but it would be too late when he arrived. He needed to go to sleep and hope that he’d feel less anxious the following day but sleep was what he dreaded most.

He fell to his knees before the crucifix mounted on the wall next to his bed and started praying.

Praying for his soul to be kept safe through the night and delivered from those dreadful dreams.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The seventh chapter receives an **Abusive Violence & Rape/Non-Con ** warning at the beginning!
> 
> I'd appreciate your input in the comments about how explicitly you'd like to read that or if you preferred it only being mentioned.
> 
> If any of you would like to skip that part completely or need to have details of the things to come (whom or in which way) to decide whether they would rather skip the next Aramis sequence, please let me know.


	7. Castigatus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **W A R N I N G!**  
>  This chapter contains Abusive Violence & Rape/Non-Con 
> 
> If you would like to skip this Aramis part completely or need to have details of the things to come (whom or in which way) to decide whether they would rather skip the Aramis sequence, please let me know.

**Aramis**

Pierre rummaged behind Père Auguste’s desk and then threw two ropes across, the other ends of which had obviously been secured somewhere on the other side. Aramis tried to catch Pierre’s eyes with his, wanting to gesture him to not do this, but Pierre avoided his gaze, his eyes firmly kept directed at the floor.

The priest stood behind him and had him pressed up against the desk, his hands like vices around his wrists. Aramis wanted to struggle, but that was too late, then, he was caught between the desk and the man who appeared to be much stronger all of a sudden.

The priest tied one of his hands after another to the ropes before he stepped back.

Aramis tried to free his hands by twisting and turning them furiously, but the knots were tight and didn’t budge. He couldn’t see what the priest was doing behind his back, so he sought out Pierre with his eyes again. The other boy stood silently behind the desk, still avoiding looking at him, shivering.

Aramis whispered his name.

“Pierre, look at me.”

 

The other boy did not react.

 

“Pierre, this needn’t go like this. Loosen the ropes!”

 

Pierre shook his head.

His voice was barely audible as he answered.

 

“Stop it, René, you’re just making things worse…”

“Worse?!” Aramis hissed, “I’m trying to get us out of here!”

 

Pierre finally did look at him.

 

“There is no getting out of here. Don’t you get it? We’ll be here, tomorrow, next week…”

 

“Pierre, holy Mother Mary, loosen the ropes!”

 

“… next month, next year, René… I will be here.” He looked away again.

 

Aramis let out a huffed breath. This was not looking well…

But Pierre was right. He was usually spared by priests like Père Auguste, even if he got out, the priest would take his wrath out on the other boy, if not today, then another day… he hadn't thought about that. He'd never actually thought about that until then.

 

He heard a wardrobe door being closed and Père Auguste stepped back up to them.

“So, mes aimés,” he addressed them in a lecturing voice, “It pains me to tell you this, but you know that you have done wrong.”

 

Aramis was pretty sure that it didn’t pain Père Auguste at all, despite the regret in his voice; he’d seen the leering in his eyes...

 

“Wrong by the laws by which we live, wrong by the laws of God!

That not being enough, you have besmirched the holy sanctity of His halls and all that is sacred! To understand the severity of your offences, you need to be castigated…”

Aramis saw Pierre flinch on the other side of the table and braced himself against the desk.

“...severely.”

 

He heard the cane swish through the air before it descended painfully on his behind.

 

“And as you so graciously volunteered to take your part of the blame, _d’Herblay_ , you will take your part of the punishment as well, as you might have… anticipated.”

The priest’s voice implied that Aramis had given the impression that he was looking forward to – whatever it was that was coming.

He did have had the chance to run, after all.

 

Aramis had a caustic remark ready on his tongue, but maybe this was the moment to keep his mouth shut, for once. He looked back up at Pierre, but the other boy stood crookedly there, turned away, shivering, a picture of timidity. Aramis cursed inwardly.

The cane came down on him again.

 

Aramis bit his tongue, tried not to flinch.

He had taken so many thrashings like this, even before he came to the seminary, he could endure much of this.

 

He received another hit at exactly the same spot as the other two before. Here was a castigator who knew his handiwork.

Perhaps, Père Auguste would lose interest in them when his arm tired and he still didn’t get any reaction.

Maybe there was a chance he’d get bored by Aramis' lack of response and release them both.

 

Another blow.

 

It started to hurt substantially, but Aramis was determined to show no reaction to not feed the desire of the violent priest.

He usually didn’t take boys like him in, he contemplated, maybe he needed the response to take his actions further.

 

Another stroke hit home and another after that.

Aramis tasted blood in his mouth.

 

As predicted, the priest started snarling angrily as Aramis did not react after a few more hits. He stepped up behind Aramis and hissed in his ear.

 

“Pray, do you think you are a tough boy, _d’Herblay_?”

 

Aramis kept silent.

 

The priest slapped the cane on the table next to Aramis, making both boys flinch with the crack.

He gripped Aramis brutally by his hair and pulled his head back to be able to look at his face.

 

“You’ll answer me, _boy_! Do you think yourself to be tough?!”

 

Pierre sobbed silently.

Aramis' mind raced; what would it accomplish if he remained silent. Maybe it wasn’t the best course of action to enrage Père Auguste, further, judging by the reaction of Pierre, who was looking more and more miserable by the minute. And he was probably right. _Pierre_ would most probably be the one who had to suffer upon the insolences if Aramis failed to appease his appetence.

“No, father” he answered calmly.

 

Père Auguste let his head go and must have straightened up as Aramis didn’t feel his breath behind his ear any more.

The priest had stepped back behind Aramis and pulled him close by his waistband.

Aramis felt his hot breath on his back as Père Auguste reached around him, opened his breeches and let them fall to the floor.

 

Aramis looked over to Pierre, who finally looked back. Tears were falling silently from his eyes.

The priest pushed up Aramis' shirt and bared his ass. This wasn’t going to end well…

A beating, he could take, as he knew, but he had never been violated like this… so far…

 

The priest cupped one of his abused cheeks with one hand and this time Aramis couldn’t suppress a shiver. The pain would have been enough to make him hiss, which he did still manage to suppress, but the feeling of being helplessly exposed in this way was something new, even for him.

 

Not that he hadn’t been bent bare backed over seminary desks before, but following that he had either enjoyed the experience of being prepared for consenting play, or, like at the desk of his father superior, when he was being punished, he could have been sure enough that at least he wouldn’t be touched in _that_ way. He had never had to fear being raped, before.

 

It dawned Aramis that he had been underestimating by far what this _fear_ did to people, to his friends… He looked back up at Pierre who did still look at him. Compassion in his eyes… pity…

Aramis shook himself, shaking off Père Auguste’s hand, and tried to stand more upright.

 

The priest picked the cane back up and started swinging at his now nude backside with renewed vigour.

He let stroke after stroke pelt down on Aramis’ already bruised behind.

 

Aramis bit his already lacerated tongue anew.

The pain became unbearable, although... he felt his backside go almost numb with pain, meanwhile.

He could do this, he said to himself, so he did neither wince nor shrink.

Pierre stared at him wide-eyed and winced with every blow, but Aramis shook his head minimally, gesturing him to remain still.

 

After a few more hits, the priest seemed to be taken aback by his perseverance and restarted addressing him.

“Who’d have thought, d’Herblay, you actually seem to enjoy yourself!” he sneered.

He stepped closer and stroked over the welts on Aramis’ cheeks with the handle of the cane. They felt taut and throbbed painfully; some of them must have been close to opening.

Sweat was dripping down Aramis’ forehead and running down his back, but he remained silent.

 

Père Auguste parted Aramis’ cheeks with the handle of the cane, let it glide through his cleft, which had become slick with sweat.

 

Aramis tried to keep his gaze steady at Pierre, wishing the other to be able to compose himself, fearing that he might raise the priest’s aspirations – he so desperately tried to quench – further, if he didn’t.

 

Père Auguste circled his hole with the cane, keeping Aramis steady with a damp hand, breathing hard onto his back.

Aramis kept Pierre's eyes imprisoned with his, he merely indicated a shake of his head with his eyes, if the boy kept it together, the priest wouldn't... he had to believe that...

The handle felt like smooth leather between his slippery cheeks, it was no thicker than that of a riding crop, the knob maybe two slim fingers wide. Aramis looked down at the desktop to take a stilling breath and tried to relax, he would be able take it… as long as he priest contented himself with that.

 

He looked back up at Pierre who seemed to hold his breath and indicated a reassuring nod.

It was crucial that he didn’t intervene, now. Aramis willed Pierre to keep silent as the priest, already panting heavily, underlaid his motion with a groan as he pushed the handle past the tight ring of his muscles.

Aramis clenched his jaw.

Something must have shown in his eyes as Pierre gasped audibly.

 

“Ah, _Valoir_ , you at least appreciate a good fuck, don’t you?” the priest leered.

“Don’t fret, you’ll get your turn” he continued and pulled the cane back out.

 

Aramis suppressed a groan as the pummel was forced back out and let his head drop, deciding it wouldn’t help looking at Pierre any longer.

He exhaled the breath he’d been holding, trying to calm his own churned up blood by looking straight at the desk before him.

 

“You know,“

the priest addressed Pierre as the only one obviously reacting,

“it would, actually, please me to fuck you – while fucking the pretty boy, here – _with_ him… if he wasn’t such a degenerate who’d actually enjoy that as well…”

emphasising that by swinging the cane widely.

“But that was what you have been asking for in the first place, wasn’t it, you needy little filth?

Where would there be the punishment in that?!”

He pointed the cane across the desk at Pierre.

Tears had started running down the other boy’s cheeks.

 

“Valoir…”

the priest addressed the boy, and lifted the other boy’s chin with the tip of the cane,

“look at you; all crying while it is pretty boy, here, who takes your beating,“

he stated with a dirty smirk in his voice that confirmed Aramis’ theory.

 

“Don’t you want to thank your _commilitone_ for taking the worst part of your castigation for you?”

 

Pierre couldn’t suppress his crying any longer and sobbed out loud.

Père Auguste tapped the underside of his chin with the cane, hard, waiting for an answer.

 

Aramis looked back up at Pierre, feeling the priest beside him getting impatient.

 

“Th-th- Thank you”, Pierre finally stammered, avoiding Aramis’ eyes.

 

Aramis wished Pierre would look at him so he could shush him.

 

“Properly!” Père Auguste insisted.

 

“I thank you very much!” Pierre sobbed and bode such a miserable picture that Aramis couldn’t but shake his head in despair.

He would be the undoing of them both.

 

“Come here, you _midget!_ ” the priest ordered and Pierre shuffled around the desk towards them.

 

As soon as Pierre was within his reach, Père Auguste grabbed him by his shoulder and threw him on his knees next to Aramis.

 

“I said - _properly_!”

 

“Don’t… do this…” Aramis whispered towards Pierre who was kneeling close enough to touch.

 

“And you, stop your insolence!” the priest cried and whipped him with the cane.

 

“You will only speak if I tell you to!”

 

Another hit landed on his throbbing cheeks.

 

“And _you_ don’t want me to have to tell you twice…”

the priest hissed at Pierre who was sobbing uncontrollably but slid closer dutifully on his knees and carefully took Aramis’ flaccid cock in hand.

He looked up at him with big wet eyes and mouthed that he was sorry.

Aramis shook his head at him vigorously, a few tears of his own pooling in the corner of his eyes at the forlorn sight of his friend.

“Don’t…” Aramis tried one last time before the cane came down on him so hard that he finally did jerk forward and gasped.

Pierre’s eyes left his and fixed on his cock.

Then he pressed them closed and took Aramis in his mouth.

 

It didn’t feel good at all like this.

Aramis could feel Pierre shivering around him, he was messy and wet and tears ran down the other boy's face. Also, his own ass was so sore that the pain numbed out every other sensation.

 

Père Auguste moaned at the sight and lunged wider, making Aramis wince, trying to brace himself awkwardly against the desk to not jerk into the other boy’s mouth too much, but the pain had become unbearable, so he couldn’t halt completely still any longer, either.

 

Pierre sat on his knees, his hands clasped behind in own back, so they wouldn’t come under the onslaught of the cane.

When Aramis jerked forward into him under every other hit, Pierre instinctively clasped his lips around him, trying to get any hold at all.

He had tried to let his tongue out of it, but as Aramis started to fill out between his clamping lips, he found his tongue searching him of its own account.

 

Aramis cursed as he felt his cock started to swell, but there was nothing he could do against it. Although the ministrations of the priest were enough to divest him of every erotic thought, the tightening grip of Pierre’s lips around the base of his shaft with each hit and his probing tongue were enough to stir the interest of his nether parts without his own doing.

Soon his cock became hard and large enough that he was pushed into the other boys throat as he twitched under the relentless caning, and he raised his efforts of standing still, his mouth full of the blood of his tongue, is jaw muscles already cramping from clenching, but Père Auguste had only eyes for the exhibition of the kneeling boy.

He had started sweating, and his exhilaration was getting obvious in his garments as Pierre hat to witness once he opened his eyes.

Aramis saw his shock, but couldn’t do any more in this situation.

His fingers were clawing into the desktop and he felt the first welts open under the violent onslaught.

Whenever Aramis managed to cushion a blow, the priest redoubled his efforts to see Pierre gag again. And no matter how much Aramis fought, he couldn’t help that every other blow had him shoved further between the other boy’s lips and meanwhile also deep into his throat.

 

He growled in helpless fury as he felt himself getting close to his release under this maltreatment, but he also felt helpless to do otherwise as Pierre had started supporting him reaching his climax with his tongue.

He obviously wanted it to get over with as well, given that Aramis got weaker by the minute, blood was spraying from his opened welts with every blow and he got shoved into the other boy harder and deeper as his strength left him.

He finally came with a desperate cry through his gritted teeth, releasing by the force of last brutal stoke with a final and uncontrolled thrust of his own.

 

Pierre howled in pain, the sound numbed by Aramis’ cock as had to take the full length of him unexpectedly.

He tried to swallow around him and finally reached out to hold on to his thighs after all to not fall backward because of the sudden shove, but he failed miserably and retched and gagged.

 

Aramis tried to gain his balance back and pull himself off the other boy, but he could not writhe backwards far enough with his wrists still shackled to the desk and Pierre holding on to his thighs tightly, so he just managed to pull out of the other’s maw and continued coming, spurting inexorably into Pierre’s mouth.

Pierre choked and spluttered Aramis’ come all over himself and Aramis’ groin.

 

Aramis had his eyes squeezed shut.

His mind had stopped accounting for his many over boiling feelings, besides the all-consuming pain, the hatred and his helplessness infused rage there was the horror and shame of being used to hurt, debase and vulgarise his friend.

  

He warily opened his eyes, fearing the loathing he would see in the other’s.

Dreading to be held responsible for betrayal; it was his perverseness, after all, which could thus be utilised against his friends, his beloved ones…

“I’m so sorry!” he whispered softly, searching for Pierre’s eyes.

 

But Pierre didn’t look at him.

He was coughing, looking wretched and puffing hoarsely.

Aramis wasn’t even sure the other boy could hear him. Tears still tried to carve their way through his bedraggled face and he seemed to hold himself upright by his grip on Aramis’ thighs alone.

 

Aramis wished he could drag him up, press him to his chest and hold him, but he was still bound bent over the desk and could do nothing.

He didn’t even dread being raped any more. He felt just terrible for Pierre, sad and so… void.

 

He was reminded of the pain, nevertheless, when Père Auguste stepped back up behind him and spanked him sharp with his bare hand once.

“You filthy degenerate! Look what you have done to your poor friend!”

He pulled Pierre off Aramis’ legs and threw him on the floor where he stayed sobbing soundly.

 

He stood close enough behind Aramis that the raw linen of his habit scraped painfully over the wounds on his ass, and he could feel the priest’s protruding erection prodding painfully against his torn buttock as he bent over him.

Aramis closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. He bit his cheek as his tongue was a mess of bloody fringes already, at this point.

 

“But see, how eagerly he has thanked you for taking the _harsh_ part of his punishment,”

the priest said and gripped Aramis' deflating cock,

“I just wished he hadn't made such a _mess_!”

he continued, his voice belying his words.

“Come here, Valoir, and clean up that mess you fabricated!”

 

Obviously Pierre already knew what was expected of him and he pulled himself up, rapidly, to lick the hand around Aramis' cock clean.

Père Auguste let him continue on Aramis while he wiped his hand in Aramis' shirt that he drew back down over his back.

He loosened the knots at his wrists, pulled the ropes off his chafed skin and threw them back over the table.

 

“You go and pray sixty _Veni, Creator Spiritus_ to atone for your horrid sins, while it is Valoir's turn!”

With that he stepped back and opened the door. Aramis carefully rose and turned around.

The priest stood next to the door, the cane threateningly in his hand.

 

For a second he was torn between his rage - already on the verge of turning his vision red – and reality.

He wanted to attack the priest, to hurt him.

No… to spill his blood, _lots of it..._ to cripple and _kill_ him.

 

But he wouldn’t be strong enough to overpower the man bare handed, and there was Pierre to consider as well.

So he pulled up his pants and reached down to pull up Pierre as well, when the priest stepped between them.

 

“Begone, I said!” he hissed and swung the cane to hit Aramis across his face.

Aramis blocked the blow with his forearm behind which he ducked his head, and slid towards the door.

He turned back in the doorway to see Pierre be heaved up and thrown over the edge of the desk before the door fell shut behind him with a bang.

Before he could change his mind and go back he heard it being bolted.

 

He had to hold up his breeches as he started running because his buttocks hurt too much to draw them fastened but he hadn’t rounded the corner before he heard Pierre start screaming.

 

\-------------------------------

**Athos**

 

“And again, he’s gonna be late!”

Porthos threw the piece of dry bread he was chewing at back on the plate with way too much force so it bounced back up and landed in Athos’ mug which contained his only breakfast.

Athos regarded his mug grimly but said nothing.

“Just because he’s our protégé, he thinks he can get away with everything…” Porthos ranted on.

“He doesn’t.”

Athos drawled, shoving the mug from him and reached for the bottle.

He drank and hated himself for feeling the urge to protect Aramis, although he knew better, this time.

 

“And I already went by his lodgings to make sure he didn't oversleep today,”

Porthos snarled

“but guess who wasn't there!”

 

That made Athos lower the wine.

Aramis had been _there_ when he had... gone by... last evening, if not on his own...

 

“What do you mean?”

Athos needlessly repeated his thoughts to gain some time for his racing mind.

 

“I mean,”

Porthos flicked another piece of bread across the table,

“that the imbecile obviously didn't make it home from his last night's tumble. And we _told him_ not to pull an all-nighter again, after that incident with the cardinal's mistress.”

 

Athos stood up so forcefully that his bench fell over and Porthos spilled some of the content of his mug in shock.

 

“Hoy!” Porthos protested, looking sourly at the mess on his belly while Athos gripped for his hat and left hurriedly.

 


	8. Infirmeree

**Athos**

Athos left the garrison with as fast a pace he could walk without running.

He didn’t even notice the two fellow Musketeers, who were just coming around the corner to enter the garrison courtyard, let alone respond to their greeting; he just rushed past them, intent on his purpose. The two looked at each other, shaking their heads, but did not wonder any further about his bearing; this was Athos. He was known to be short on words, or even common courtesy, sometimes.

Athos took short-cuts through La Corne and along Ruelle de Sabot through the Petit Tarenne to the Rue de Sepulchre, rather than following the main streets; he preferred to take the smaller alleyways so he had less chance of being seen or stopped by anyone he might know; he even dared to run a few paces there.

So he kept his urgent pace until he reached la Chapelle de Saint-Pierre.

 

Athos sprinted up the few steps and pushed at the heavy oaken door with a rapidly beating heart.

He didn’t know what he would do, if he wasn’t here.

He would have wagered he would find him here, the evening before, but he had been wrong then as well.

 

He had been sure that Aramis had been in this dark a mood because of whatever had happened in his past, when he had still been on his way to becoming an _abbé_ , that he had been reminded of it by something in one of his nightmares, most probably, which seemed to haunt him with increasing regularity, as of late.

It always resulted in Aramis returning not only to his religious habits but also his more vile ecclesiastic measures of redeeming… frighteningly unhealthy ones more and more often, but those were still preferable to his other, mundane, ways of coping…

 

Athos was relieved to find the chapel already open and pushed the heavy door so far as to be able to slip inside.

His eyes instantly searched for him for his spot.

It was empty.

 

The whole chapel was empty aside from an elderly priest who refilled the basins with holy water.

Athos let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he had been holding.

 

He wasn’t here.

 

That left him with no proper idea as to where he might have gone, so early before duty…

Perhaps Porthos was right and he actually _had_ gone to another mistress of his for the night, after the encounter he had witnessed happening at Aramis' own lodgings.

Athos felt dizzy and braced himself against the last of the pews.

This looked worse than he had imagined, then.

 

The priest was done with his task and approached him warily.

 

“Good morning, _son_. Is there anything I can help you with?”

 

Athos brought the hand that was not steadying him on the bench up to his hat and took it off, respectfully; wiping his brow with the back of his hand...

Had the cold sweat gathered there from his walk here?

Was he getting so out of training that these few steps had strained him as much…?

 

“No, _father_ …” he answered politely. “I’m fine, thank you.”

 

“You don’t look fine at all.” The old priest remarked, taking in Athos' dizzy sway as well as his pale pallor, “Maybe you should sit down for a minute.”

With astonishing force he gripped Athos’ arm, pulled him around the pew and pushed him to sit down in it.

“There.”

 

Athos wondered what had befallen him and looked around him in what felt like a fevery haze.

The early morning light only sent sparse individual damp rays through narrow but high towering coloured windows, teeming with dancing dust particles which seemed to chase each other in a haste to get away from the sun.  

The saints pictured in those window panes suddenly seemed to loom over him menacingly, ready to bend inwards and crush him in a deadly rain of glass.

Athos tried to calm his heightened breathing, as his eyes came to rest on the Jesus that was hung high in the apsis behind the altar. He seemed to look down on him in severe disapproval...

...or was it just his pain as an especially vicious crown of thorns was pressed onto his brow, the long spines leaving gaping incisions that bled heavily...

Did all of those Jesuses bleed that much from their wounds?

Did his eyes resemble that of his comrade and friend closely... or was this just a trick of the light?

 

Athos eyes flickered back around himself.

What was the reason for Aramis to come here of all churches after all?

Did he see a reflection of himself, of his pains, in this miserable and starved Jesus?

He recognised none of the other saints on the sculptures or pictured in the stained windows, which was not astonishing as he had never been interested in any of that and never paid any attention to whomever tried to lecture him about religion.

He didn’t believe in God anymore. His God had died with his ability to trust, to have faith, _to love..._

 

The priest still seemed to have a watchful eye on him while he busied himself with some hymnals behind the last pew, marking songs to be sung in the next mass, probably, close behind him.

 

“Father, can you tell me who this ‘ _Saint Pierre_ ’ of this chapel is?”

 

“Ah, you young soldiers of nowadays, so unlearned, so ignorant!”

The priest coughed and it sounded like he was caught between starting an agitated argument and expressing profound reprobation as he raised his voice.

“Can any of you even still read?!”

 

Athos bristled at the sudden hostility the priest displayed.

 

“This chapel isn’t called _'Saint Pierre'_! There is no Saint Pierre pictured here, nor relics of any buried!”

The priest was stopped by a strong fit of coughing and Athos raised from his bench and stepped around, in case the old man might need his support, but the priest pulled back sharply and tried to resume before another fit stopped him short again.

Athos heard a door behind the altar open and a younger priest emerged, rushing towards them.

 

“This chapel was already a sanctuary a long time before the abbey Saint-Germain-des-Prés has been built across the street under the name St. Vincent, then, to house the relicts of Saint-Vincent of Saragossa, as you may know!

But _this_ place here, it wasn’t built to house any relics nor was it dedicated to any saint!“

The older priest lectured very indignantly, almost angrily.

 

“It had been a holy place already way before Christianity and was made the first christian church in this diocese.

The first _abbé_ of St. Vincent, the Saint Droctovée, therefore, had chosen to be interred in this very chapel and that has been in the year of our lord Fivehundred-seventy-eight!”

He was shaken by another fit of coughing, just as the younger priest came closer, rounded the last pew as well as Athos, and turned to stand behind the old priest to support and calm him.

But the old priest went on despite his coughing.

“He was not the last père who had been sainted and buried here! For as long as those days, this chapel has always been called _‘St. Père’_ after the canonised saint Père Droctovée who has been buried here and those that followed throughout the centuries, so is the very street this chapel is located by.”

The old priest roled his eyes for this connection should obviously have been made even by a soldier as despicable in his eyes as Athos.

 

“Come,” the younger priest interrupted, as he saw his chance. “Calm yourself, father! All is well. I'll take you back and make you a tea.”

He took the priest by his shoulders to steer him back to the rooms behind the altar but the old priest shook him off and made his way down the aisle on his own, muttering to himself that he could well do that alone.

 

“But there _are_ those, who call this place St. Pierre?” Athos inquired from the younger priest, who was still older than him, Athos decided, being up close to him, now, but it was hard to guess his real age because of the low light, his timeless look and his shaven head.

“There are.” Was all the priest answered and leant against the last pew, taking Athos in with his head askance.

 

The way he assessed him made Athos uncomfortable.

He lowered his eyes, put his hat back on, not willing to ask anything further, only wishing to go, so he turned to the door.

 

“ _René_ is one of those.”

 

Athos stilled in his movement, but didn't turn to look back.

 

“Is this name supposed to tell anything to me?” he requested.

 

The priest's stare turned adamant, as he leant even more nonchalantly against the bench.

Athos could feel his eyes piercing his back. But the priest did not answer to his riposte, he knew was just being deliberately evasive, but replied with a counter question.

 

“Are you not here for him, then?”

 

Athos' squared his shoulders, and pulled himself up before he turned back to face then priest again, after all.

 

“Whom?”

 

The priest eyed him penetratingly.

 

“The chevalier d'Herblay, naturally.”

 

_René d'Herblay._

This was not the name Aramis had given him the day he had entered the garrison courtyard.

But then, no one ever did use his real family name when he entered the Musketeers.

It was _usance_ that every man who entered their ranks enlisted under a 'declared identity' to just serve their country and leave their family and name out. Hadn’t he ever got a glimpse on any of his papers?

Had there ever been a real family name?

Had he ever heard a lady friend of his call him by his true Christian name?

And if so, had it been _René_?

He couldn't for the sake of it remember.

They had been calling him _l'abbé_ , as his nick name, for as long as he knew him...

 

“We enter the corpse under an assumed name, not unlike yourselves, I believe.” Athos volunteered to explain, his tone as cold as his face.

 

“Then, how many _comrades_ of yours do turn to ancient secluded chapels as this for their admissions, _my son_?” the priest countered.

He shoved himself off the bench and as much as brushed past Athos as he went to leave back through the aisle; obviously declaring their conversation as over, as Athos wasn't willing to open himself up to him.

 

“...the Musketeer you call _Aramis_ , I mean, of course.”                                         

 

\-------------------------------

 

**Aramis**

Aramis ran through the back of the church, down a stair to the crypt, through the dark of the catacombs that led beneath the street to the school part of the seminary, along the dark part of the seminary cellar.

He didn’t need any light, thankfully, he knew the way as well as the back of his hand; he ran and didn’t stop until he reached the door he had aimed for, panting hard.

 

He knocked frantically and then forcefully pulled the door open without leaving anyone inside even the slightest opportunity to answer.

He startled two people inside, a young boy, about nine years old who sat on a chair with his left hand extended and a middle-aged monk who was applying a bandage around said hand of the boy.

The monk was just tucking the ends of the knot under, finishing his work in the dim cellar room under the light of several good bee's wax candles.

Before he had a chance to get angry at the misbehaving intruder, he, with a fleeting glance already, took in the miserable state of the sweating and dishevelled boy who was breathing raggedly and held himself upright with his hand still on the door, only, whilst with his other hand he struggled to hold his open pants up.

 

Aramis still worked his breathing down to start to talk, but the monk was on his feet instantly, pulling him inside and behind him while he turned and motioned at the other boy to get out.

Aramis gulped and started to speak, all too rushed.

“Frère Baptise, …” he had to gasp for air to continue.

The addressed monk turned to him, pulled at his wrist and shushed him, blocking him from the other boy’s view before he turned back to the young boy.

“Your hand will be fine, come back in two days. Be careful and don’t use it, meanwhile, and now get out!”

The boy sprang to his feet and ran out without another glance back.

 

The monk, frère Baptiste, threw the door shut behind the boy before he turned around and took Aramis’ face in his other hand, while stepping out of the light of his candles to have a proper look at his visage.

 

There was blood running from Aramis’ lips and he was shaking.

 

“Dear Mother, René, what happened?”

 

Aramis started again.

“Père Auguste, he got me and Pierre…”

 

Frère Baptiste let Aramis’ hand go, just then, taking in that his wrists were chafed bloody as well.

 

He took a deep breath and a slow step back to inspect the rest of him:

 

_Several sprays of blood on his shirt._

_His breeches open and cautiously held up._

_Blood and ... God knows what ... on his hands._

_His stance, … he seemed to be in much pain…_

 

The concerned frown on frère Baptiste’s brow deepened and his eyes narrowed.

He tentatively reached his hand back out towards Aramis, careful und slowly this time, his voice just as cautious, soothing.

 

“René, dear, come closer to the light…” he pleaded guardedly.

 

“No! There’s no time, he still has Pierre!”

Aramis looked fleetingly towards the door.

 

“René, …there’s nothing we can do.”

Frère Baptiste calmly stated and reached out cautiously to get a hold of his hand.

 

“No!”

Aramis pulled back and took a step back towards the door.

“We have to do something!” He blurted out, his eyes haunted, flicking between the door and frère Baptiste.

“You have to come with me!”

 

“René, … there’s _nothing_ we can do!” frère Baptiste repeated, a bit louder, no, perhaps only clearer but still very soothingly.

 

“We have to get father Arnault!” Aramis almost cried.

 

“No. René, listen to me, now...” Frère Baptiste urged him warily.

But Aramis interrupted him mid-sentence.

“He has to stop him, … père Auguste… he will hurt him!”

 

“René,” the monk started again, “Father Arnault… he won’t help. Come here, come to me…”

 

“But he is _violating_ him!” Aramis nearly sobbed, ”Father Arnault…”

 

“He knows!”

 

Frère Baptiste cut him short and grabbed his arm again, mindful of his wrist, now, but shaking it once, to get the frantic boy’s attention.

 

“Do you hear me, René, _he knows_.”

 

Aramis stopped in his movement and turned fully back towards the monk, staring at him unbelieving, his eyes wide.

 

“There is _nothing_ we can do, René.”

 

Frère Baptiste took his hand and looked deep into his eyes, full of regret, full of pity but waiting for the words to sink in before he cautiously pulled him closer.

 

“No.”

Aramis shook his head and tried to pull back.

“ _No!_ ”

 

Frère Baptiste sighed deeply.

He knew Aramis well, …his favourite little boy.

From the first day Aramis came to the seminary, he had been a denizen of his infirmary.

Aramis’ bright eyes had always been sparkling with mirth and intelligence and he had always enjoyed discussing with the boy what had happened to him or why he had done what he had done to get punished so severely as to be sent to him.

 

And Baptiste had always done more than to just treat his wounds; he knew Aramis needed not only the dialogue but first and foremost the closeness. He was so gentle a boy, so tactile…

He needed bodily comfort more than the medical treatment and there was nothing frère Baptiste wanted to do more, than to pull him close and hug him tightly to his chest, now, like he used to.

But he had to move cautiously, now, wary of Aramis’ condition.

He had to examine, first, how much damage had been done to him, to his backside, and also … how much touch he would be able to stand at all, after this.

 

His hand alighted carefully on the top of Aramis’ head feeling softly for bruises before he stroked his head properly, combing with his fingers through his sweaty dark curls, then cupping the back his head lovingly and looking into his eyes again, giving him time to understand.

 

“This cannot really happen, this can’t be true.” His eyes were wet when Aramis looked back up at frère Baptiste.

“How can he allow this to happen?”

 

Frère Baptiste’s other hand alighted carefully on his shoulder.

He drew closer but remained at arm’s length and lowered himself to Aramis’ height to get his eyes to his level, showing him nothing but honesty.

 

“Père Auguste is family of very important people, René. He’d be much higher up in the system, were it not for his... transgressions… This is already the lowest he can get.

No matter what Father Arnault would try, he’d still just end up here.

And father Arnault has tried, but the only repercussions were had on him. This is why he is stuck here, as well.”

Baptiste sighed.

“If father Arnault he loses his position here, there is nowhere for him left to go… and he will have to go sooner than père Auguste, be assured of that… He has to work with the people that are given to him, here…

This already is the lowest position any of us could get…

It’s politics, René.

I’m so sorry you have to witness this.”  

 

He had stroked his hand carefully down from the shoulder along Aramis’ arm and already felt a heavy bump from a bruise on Aramis’ forearm.

Frère Baptiste instantly let go of the arm and cautiously brought his hand around to rest against his shoulder again, from behind this time, leaving his movement light and open, indicating a hug, but being careful to let the boy choose to step into his embrace or to withdraw.

He felt the boy going rigid.

 

“I’m so sorry, René!” He whispered.

He felt a lump close off his throat at the realization what might have been done to this boy, what this it would mean for him, for his favourite boy, the lively and smart boy, if this had broken him.

He raised his eyes heavenwards, praying for forgiveness for this selfish thoughts towards this boy, when he _knew_ _for sure_ how many boys had already been broken here, would be still…

_But this one, he personally cared for._

_René was feisty and tough; he had been so close to have been spared…_

“I’m so terribly sorry…”

 

He felt his eyes well up and tried to blink the gathering tears away by concentrating on the crucifix that was mounted on the opposite wall behind above Aramis’ shoulder.

He willed the crucified little Jesus to bear this boy’s pain as well, prayed to God to have mercy on this boy’s soul, to keep it safe, he’d do whatever it would take…

 

Aramis exhaled slowly, dysfluently, and with a stuttering breath, his last wall of resistance left him.

The tears he had tried to hold back for so long started flowing and he threw himself sobbing into frère Baptiste’s open arms.

 

The monk folded his arms gingerly around Aramis’ shoulders, careful to not cause any more harm and held him tight to his chest.

He rocked him gently, standing up straight again, pressing soft and affectionate kisses to his sweaty locks and sending a quick prayer of thankfulness up.

 

It wasn’t until sometime later, that he dared to draw back, he caressed and swiped Aramis’ face und muttered many words of solace before he could finally urge the slightly calmed Aramis down onto his examination table, will him, to drown some calmative potion, and let him pull off his breeches.

Frère Baptiste gasped and drew air hissing through his teeth at the sight of the carnage that the priest had created on Aramis’ behind and his thighs.

He started to gently wash away the blood to apply some healing ointment onto Aramis’ open welts, mindful of the pain the boy already had to endure.

He had moved carefully as he ventured to clean Aramis’ cleft and addressed him cautiously, with one hand resting reassuringly on a small, not bruised, part of his lower back.

 

“René…, do you want to talk about what he did to you?”

 

The mild sedative had meanwhile kicked in and Aramis shook his head numbly.

 

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I have to clean your wounds…” Baptiste ventured.

 

Aramis was too exhausted to raise his head.

“It’s fine…”

 

He nevertheless flinched strongly as frère Baptiste carefully parted his cheeks.

 

Frère Baptiste noticed it with a pang of pain but he couldn’t make out if all the blood came from the visible wounds or if he was also hurt deeper within.

 

“René?”

He asked quietly, fighting to not let his emotions show in his voice.

“Auguste,… did he… enter you?”

 

“No!”

Aramis answered, much too fast to be believable.

 

“Not much…” he relented, and tried to raise himself up enough to look back at frère Baptiste, who looked down at him steadily, searching for how much he held back.

 

“…not like that.”

 

Frère Baptiste swallowed once and absentmindedly rested the washing cloth on Aramis’ buttock, making Aramis squirm uncomfortably.

He wanted to excuse for that just as Aramis took that as a prod to tell more.

So he kept still…

 

“Not with his prick… I mean.”

 

Aramis pushed himself up to rest his upper body on his uninjured forearm and turned half to look at frère Baptiste.

His expression was pained but contemplating and the monk carefully laid a hand on his calf, the only uninjured area he could reach, and squeezed encouragingly, knowing that usually, this was what helped the boy best, …talking.

He returned his gaze steadily, inquiringly.

 

Aramis swallowed, but then started again.

 

“You know, I believe he wanted to fuck me, entirely, but I didn’t turn him on enough, I guess. He just entered me with his cane, but then Pierre distracted him…”

 

Frère Baptiste shushed him and reluctantly left his eyes to part his cheeks again.

He couldn’t see any obvious damage, but if he had been entered with a cane…

The monk carefully wiped the blood away.

It didn't look too bad. But maybe internally...

He applied a generous amount of salve on his forefinger, rested one hand appeasingly at the Aramis’ lower back, and carefully probed his anus.

 

Aramis hissed and jumped.

 

“Does this hurt _piercingly_ anywhere?” the monk asked worriedly.

 

“No!”

“No. Please, I’m fine. He just barely breached me, I’ve had much more, …consistently.”

 

“I know,” frère Baptiste sighed resentfully and applied more salve to his entrance, “at least usually willingly, as much as you let in.”

 

“Initiating it even, usually," Aramis tried to sound easy "... as often as I am here…”

 

Frère Baptiste had finished applying the ointment on Aramis’ wounds and lifted him partially to bandage him up.

 

“Why do you do this, René?” The monk inquired. Not sure himself if he meant the boy playing the situation down or the blatant bragging with forbidden sex.

 

“He is taking it all out on Pierre…”

 

“He would have done so anyway.”

 

“No, you don’t know what he said.

He would have fucked me, but I was too willing, too debauched, _too filthy_ for him...

I didn’t turn him on, enough, so he got angry and he’ll punish Pierre for it...”

 

“René, you know that is not the truth…”

 

“No, Baptiste, YOU don’t know, he said so!”

 

“René,“ the monk said and gripped the boy’s hands, using the moment to also apply some salve on his tortured wrists, “he hits Pierre regularly, I know that, he only thrashed you, today, because you got in his way, am I right?”

 

“No. He wouldn’t brutalize him like that if I hadn’t enraged him!”

 

“That is not true, René…”

 

“If I wasn’t such _filth_ he would have raped _me_ …”

 

“No, René! He would have raped Pierre anyway…”

 

“… and I would have been able to take it!”

 

“NO!” Baptiste shouted and clutched Aramis’ hands in his.

 

“Listen to me! No, you would _not_ have been able to take it any better than him, and no, it is not your fault!

What happens to Pierre is Auguste’s malefaction and fault alone and it has _nothing_ to do with you!”

 

Aramis shook his head violently, tears filled his eyes again and he whispered, because his voice had left him.

 

“I am a filthy degenerate, who has brought that upon _his friend_!”

 

“No, René, you are not degenerate…”

 

He laid a hand on his head in a benedictive gesture, but Aramis shook him off and screamed in terror.

 

“No?!

The _hell_ you know!

It turned me on, I _fucked his mouth_ and

I CAME ALL OVER HIM!!!”

 

Aramis jumped up and wanted to run away, but frère Baptiste caught him around his waist, pulled him to his side and sank to the floor with Aramis half across his lap.

There he stayed and let the boy cry into his habit, caressing his hair and praying for help.

 

\-------------------------------

 

**Athos**

Athos couldn't help himself from flinching at the mentioning of the name he knew him under … _Aramis_ , although he already had assumed it was him the priest had been talking about, nevertheless…

 

He finally looked back up and instantly knew that something must have shown in his features as he turned around to face he priest again and met an almost sardonic smile.

 

“He is at the old cemetery across the road.” The priest said, tilting his head in an almost nod and put his hands together in a benevolent gesture.

 

Athos nodded as thankful as he truly felt, accepting this gift of knowledge, and turned to leave in a haste, as some sudden thought made him freeze and look back.

 

Surely not _every_ priest in that parish knew Aramis’ true name.

 

This priest must know him closely.

 

Maybe this priest knew even more…

 

Maybe he could be of help to get more information and lift the veils to the dark secrets of his brother that still lay hidden in the fog of his mysterious past.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Athos said, and took his hat back off, to let it rest demurely in his hands and laid all the honesty and appreciation he felt in his gaze.

 

“I care about him, … not only as a fellow soldier, but like… a brother.”

 

“A _brother_ …” the priest repeated dubiously and it sounded like he had heard that kind of phrasing a lot… a few times too often, most likely.

 

“By my guest then,” he said cautiously “to return whenever you please.”

 

“I will,…“ Athos bowed politely and let his intonation linger, to make clear he was only pausing for the effect to make his words a question, “…father…”

 

“Baptiste.” The priest said with a polite bow of himself.

 

Athos nodded, put his hat back on and left under the scrutinising glare of the priest who remained standing at the entrance of the aisle like Cherub guarding the entrance to paradise with his flaming sword.

He had the uneasy feeling that this priest would not hesitate defending Aramis with the same vehemence, if needed.

 


	9. Penitent

 

**Aramis**

 

     “ _Dearest Cousin,_

_I know that you are secure enough to know you have not_

_offended our aunt by your behaviour_ _._

 _If you are kept from sending word_ _any longer, a single line, even,_

_she might have to draw her own conclusions as to why._

_Truly,_

_M.”_

 

Aramis took a deep breath. He pressed the little piece of paper to his lips, inhaling deeply, trying to will down the wild flutter that started to stir his heart, the humming beat unsteady like that of a small bird caught in a school boy’s hands.

He wanted to give in, badly, to relish in this feeling of delight again, but he couldn’t.

He would certainly not be so irresponsible as to allow himself to have this any longer, to drag her down with him into the nether abyss that was his vile and dark desires.

 _Filth_ _-_ he had said, and he was right.

And if he was to be honest, at least to himself, that’s where this would end.

He had tempted her already, lured her from her supposed and innocent path of girlish flirtation into wanting that kiss…

He willed back the water that pooled in his mouth as he remembered.

The kiss which had turned way beyond charming… way beyond being  
  
_friendly_.

 

He had allowed himself to force his passion upon her, to ravish her, he had poured it into her mouth and forced it down her throat. He had made her taste his want and made her feel the same.

That not being enough, he had let her feel his indecent arousal, tempted her into exploring, into _knowing_ , which for once was forbidden for a reason absolutely valid – even to him.

 

No wonder the church and every weaker man tried to blame the fairer sex of temptation, but that was not how it was. Never had been…

If you read the words properly, the original words, the temptation had arisen somewhere else completely, somewhere deep and dark, and had only been projected upon Eve by the men who had written it down later, in different languages, men who wanted to blame women instead of the true culprit… but he had caught on early, seen between the lines and gotten older fragments to confirm his suspicions.

Eve had been innocent herself and had only dragged along the man who had followed her, all too willingly even. But the _temptation_ had been roused by the apple and the initial spark to give in to this temptation had come from the snake.

The snake had justified her means, outwitted her inner dispute as to what was wrong and for which reasons.

The snake was the initial tempter.

 

Aramis felt a cold bead of sweat rolling down his spine and suppressed a shiver.

_The Tempter._

 

A description that was used as a description for the personified evil in this world, personified in the _devil_ …

And he had fallen.

The metaphorical apple was between them.

The fruit was ripe and lucent red.

 

He had plucked it, taken it between them and they both had licked it, tasting its deliciousness… and now, now they both wanted more, they wanted to bite down for real, taste its sweet juices, its ample flesh… they wanted to share all of it, to devour it, together.

And it was his fault.

Aramis was no Adam. He had never been a mere follower, he had always made up his own mind about everything and he knew that Marie was no different. There was no stupid Adam around in this metaphor. There was only Eve in all her splendid innocent beauty and she was as intrigued by the possibilities as he was. With a simple difference, _he_ had taken the role of the snake, he was _the tempter_.

Hadn’t he always been the one luring people into dangers that they had ultimately been suffering in?

 _Pierre_ had suffered in?!

Whatever his desires might be, _their_ desires might be, this once, he would not lead her to give in to the temptation, he wouldn’t let her suffer for them. For him.

He folded the delicate little note daintily back together and put it back under the stone beside the grave where he had found it.

 

 

\-------------------------------

 

**Athos**

The tall rusty iron gate of the old cemetery gave a blood-curdling screech as he opened it, drowning out the gravel rustling beneath the soles of his heavy riding boots as he entered the premises.

Athos cringed involuntarily as the gate crashed back into its lock with another scream and the sound of the graunching gavel ascended cruelly to his ears as he turned back.

Once past the cemetery walls he got the feeling that time had moved back a few hours. It seemed colder, here, than out on the streets, darker still, and the morning dew lay heavy on the grass and the tombs.

He shivered involuntarily and wondered whether the dizziness that had overcome him inside the chapel before and the sudden coldness he felt now were the results of neither having had any breakfast nor a proper dinner the day before, aside from wine.

He should have drunk more of said wine before he had left his rooms this morning, at least.

He wondered where he should look for his friend as it surely wouldn’t be appropriate to call out for him, not on a cemetery. Normally he wouldn’t even mind, there was hardly anyone around at this time of day, but he was sure Aramis would.

So he decided to follow the path to the left which lead around some high crypts and should take him up a hill where he would get a better view across the grounds. The situation couldn’t have gotten more eerie if a screech owl had hooted that moment... But none did. Everything was silent except for the grinding gravel which was scrunching disturbingly loud in his sore head. He left the path and continued on the grass that was framing the path's sides.

Once elevated enough he let his gaze roam across the misty yard.

The very old part of the cemetery with its richly decorated crypts, big mossy head stones and slightly mouldered life-size statues as well as half crumbled sculptures of crosses and angels lay now hidden beneath big old chestnut trees, the newer part along the slope of the hill was lined with more standard sized graves, most of them dating from the last plague, some were well kept, still, with fresh flowers, most of them looked utterly abandoned, though. A lot of families had lost everyone, with no one left to look after the lost.

Further away he could spot a field of smaller graves, lined up closely with small marks only, one looking exactly as the other with no adornments whatsoever and he sighed in relief.

There was a person crouching amidst them, squatting on his hinges in the relaxed way of a very well balanced man. It was him.

Athos quickly descended in his direction, taking the direct way, short cutting across the graves, staying on the grass to numb the sound of his movement and mask his approach as long as possible, trying to discern what kind of graves that field housed.

But before he could get a clear view of any of the small stones, Aramis perceived him and straightened. He put the hat he had been holding in his hands before him back on his head and quickly shoved something into a pocket of his waistcoat as he turned towards Athos.

 _His rosary_ _,_ Athos knew.

He picked up speed to meet Aramis at least at the head of the path from where he could still get a view on the tomb stones which he thought might give him any explanation, but Aramis seemed to want to avoid just that and took a short-cut as well, taking long strides across the lawn to meet him further up.

 

This behaviour, especially on holy ground, was so unlike his usual bearing that Athos became aware he needed to remember the exact location of the grave to come back and take a closer look at it. Only all of those small graves looked similar… none stood out for he could remember a special one. So he started to count the rows from the beginning of the field but Aramis had come close enough to see the motion of his eyes roaming over the single lines and came to stand precisely in his way, addressing him distracting.

“Good morning, my friend. Seeing you here I take it that I have forgotten time and will be late, again.”

He took Athos, who still tried to count the graves from the path to the one Aramis had visited, by his elbow and turned him jauntily back on the quickest way to the exit.

“As you can see it is easy to be misled of the true passing of time within these walls...“

Aramis kept talking while he tried to walk Athos back to the gate.

“...The trees throw such eerie shadows that one believes it still to be much earlier than it truly is, am I not right?”

 

“Aramis!”

Athos finally interrupted his gush of words and freed his arm forcefully from Aramis’ firm grasp.

“What were you doing here?”

Athos tried to make eye contact with his friend, but Aramis kept his hidden beneath the brim of his hat.

 

“I am sorry for being late and having you led to come all the way out here…”

 

“Aramis…”

 

Athos let his tone linger, making clear that he expected an answer, this time, instead of his usual avoiding tactics.

 

“I was visiting a grave as you have seen.” Aramis replied levelly.

 

Athos sighed with a tone that he hoped showed his annoyance about his friend’s behaviour more than the worry that grew underneath at his continuing strange conduct.

“Why did you come out here so early in the morning?” _And got absorbed so much you forgot about the time._

 

“I like to come here early, it’s calm and peaceful, the streets are still empty, it leaves me space to think.”

 

Athos exhaled angrily, the air rushing audibly out through his nose.

His nostrils flared.

Aramis _hated_ getting up early, especially when he didn’t need to.

Athos knew this.

Porthos knew this.

 _Everybody_ knew this.

And Aramis knew that _he_ knew!

 

Evasion was one thing, he hated when Aramis did that, but he had gotten used to it. Aramis had secrets, Aramis dallied with women he was not supposed to, and he was woven neck-deep in some of the Ladies’ court intrigues. Most of the time, it was for the better if he didn’t know such things. He did excuse Aramis not telling him those, swerving questions, even, he had come to terms with that.

But trying to feed him non-sense was different level, completely.

One he couldn’t take.

Athos turned on his heels and set a hurried pace back in the direction of the gate.

 

 _Why,_ he asked himself again, why did he always take it upon himself to defend Aramis. Before their Captain, before Porthos, even before _himself_.

 _M_ _ostly_ before himself, when _this_ was all he got in response.

He was so done with it.

 

He heard Aramis’ rushed steps catching up on the gravel close behind him but he simply stormed on, suddenly thankful for the loud gnashing of the stones as it seemed to underline his fury.

He had known beforehand where it would get him, to make friends with people, again, to trust them, rely on them,… _love them…_

 

That’s why he didn’t.

He couldn’t, anymore.

He was so done - with all of it.

 

Aramis caught up with Athos at the iron gate as he was about to open it.

Athos laid his hand on a rusty rod and waited for the blink of an eye without turning around.

_Nothing._

 

The ear-piercing creak nearly drowned out every other sound as Athos pushed the grid.

 

“Athos,”

 

Aramis’ voice was different as he spoke this time. It was so tainted with grief that Athos let his hand fall from the rod he was clutching so hard that his knuckles stood out even through his glove and he finally turned around to meet Aramis’ eyes.

 

“I am sorry.” The other said, apparently contrite.

 

Athos wanted to confirm the truth behind his words; that this was one _true_ thing he let on, but when he saw his friend’s face, he already knew this verification hadn’t been necessary. The tone of his muted voice alone had told him enough, if he was honest with himself.

Before Athos’ mind, the priest appeared again, _Père Baptiste_ , he reminded himself, stepping in front of Aramis as he had stood in the chapel in front of the aisle, like an avenging angel, eyeing him piercingly, ready to defend one of his sheep … his favourite son… _René…_

 

“Tell me just one thing,”

Athos requested calmly, and Aramis looked at him beseechingly, his eyes big, as if ready to fly, if the answer Athos requested was one he could not give; Athos felt it.

Athos dreaded it, yet he could not let it pass… _not_ _completely_ …

 

“Why do you call the chapel Saint-Pierre?”

 

Aramis looked at him perplexed.

“That chapel?”

He vaguely pointed his chin in its general direction and Athos huffed out an exasperated breath. If Aramis could not even give him this simple bit…

 _No,_ he swallowed the bile that had risen in the back of his throat, thinking of the priest. Aramis wasn’t himself. He needed to show patience and wait for the other to come out by himself, _willingly_. He ignored this peculiar phrasing of his devious mind and settled his eyes upon his friend with an equanimity that was almost enough to rival that of a priest, he thought.

 

It worked. Aramis resumed.

 

“That chapel has always been called Saint-Pierre’s.”

Athos shook his head, there it was again, Aramis not answering, as simple as that.

But he had to accept with his head what his heart had accepted long ago. He still wouldn't give him up. _Not yet._

“The priest within begs to differ. He is very convinced that its name is St. Père.”

Aramis’ gazed narrowed, first, because he had to suppress a blink which would have given away his thorough confusion at that particular piece of information and second, because he tried to fathom why Athos wanted to know.

How did this conversation even come up?

And what meaning might his answer have to Athos… _to himself_?

He knew that his usual reflex, to answer with another counter-question, like ‘Why do you want to know?’, could mean to smack away the other’s hand extended in an offer of peace... _yet again._ A peace he had already been ready to forsake, if the question had been wrong, but thinking about it, now, he found he’d rather not. And this was a question he could actually be able to answer, properly. He somehow couldn’t give up this chance to not alienate Athos any further than he already did.

Aramis still stood silent, stock-still, and thought about his answer, staring unblinkingly, as he noticed a faint flicker in Athos’ eyes. They were starting to dull over, his gaze gliding out of focus and in on himself. Aramis then realised that the question in itself had already been Athos’ most generous offer, at this point, a place-holder for the all the questions he actually did have right now and chose not to ask...

But the warning in his eyes was clear. If he did not answer this one either, he would cause a true rift. Athos was willing to forgive a lot, as it came to his most beloved friends, but there was a line they’d better not cross. For the sake of their friendship… he owed him an answer.

An honest answer.

_At least partly…_

Aramis took a deep breath and made sure to look straight into his friend’s eyes, his voice calm and trained as a preacher’s as he replied.

“If you really want to know, it is currently called ‘St. Père’, that is correct. But that name has only derived lately through corruption of its original name ‘Saint-Pierre’. All evidence that can still be found point to it and it makes perfect sense, if you take into consideration that on this spot one of the earliest pagan altars around here was located.”

Athos' look did not much to hide his confusion.

 

“Christianisation,” Aramis went on to explain what he meant being obvious, “mainly came to Paris long before emperor Theodosius I had proclaimed Christianity the official religion of the empire in on February 27th, 380. Because already in 250 AD, Pope Fabianus had sent seven carefully chosen bishops here, to Gaul, to found churches and help Christian communities to evolve. As you know, the one that came to Paris was St. Denis who was so successful with his men that they were arrested and beheaded. What made them so effective was their approach through old Gallic's druids' holy places, like this one. So Paris' martyrs were celebrated as 'fishers of men', and a lot of the first Christian places of congregations were named after the original the fisher of men, Apostle of the Apostles,Petrus,Saint Peter, _Pierre_.”

Athos still did not look convinced.

“You know, the proper archives of this chapel have been raided long ago. The few that is known about its origins is hard to come by, actually. There is close to nothing about it left in the archives of Saint-Germain Abbey, as they claim all the important historical facts for themselves. There have been only very few fragments of documents left stating facts about the origins of the oldest chapel of this parish. Those facts fit only this very place regarding the location and the former altar and basilica.

In the documents of Saint-Sulpice I have found some missives dating from the 13th  century that the curé of Saint-Sulpice was to hold four important holy masses of the year, Christmas, the circumcision, the immaculate conception and St. Peter's day, not in Saint-Sulpice, but in an other, more important location, referring to it as

‘ _Capella_ beati Petri _, in atrio ejusdem villae.’_

But the actual whereabouts, the exact location of this chapel of St. Peter could still be argued over, with only those fragments left. Only in the annals of the order of Saint-Benoît have I found a passage about the entombment of Saint Doctroveus, who had been sainted and buried in that very chapel in the 6th  century, and it said

‘ _Sepultus fuit in oratorio_ sancti Petri _, ad occidentalem basilicae plagam posito’*_

But as this is neither mentioned in his bibliography in the _Acta Sanctorum,_ and the archives of Saint-Germain they of course have manuscripts stating that he is buried in one of the older crypts of the Abbey, insisting that one of their altars in the grand church of the abbey has also been devoted to St. Peter. But, as with everything that is worth prestige or glory, and is fought over in politics, all real evidence is being systematically destroyed, all traces suddenly vanish and in the end no one really _cares_ , because commemorations – although everyone within the church is all too ready to avouch is their most holy purpose – in reality count for nothing. And those who claim to be the most pious shows the least regard for anyone's feelings.”

Aramis had spoken faster and faster, his voice getting hunted, more and more agitated until he finally made a break to take in some air, and it seemed he would continue with the same rushed pace, but he didn’t. He shook his head like to disperse the thoughts which obviously foamed in his head and wanted to spray right out. But he simply shut his mouth and said nothing more.

 

Athos just stared at him, levelly.

Wordless.

 

He saw a new spark kindle in the back of Aramis’ eyes, couldn’t determine the real emotion behind it and bit his tongue as one of the few doctrines he obviously remembered popped up inside his head…

_He will twist your words, play mind games, and cause chaos, dissension, and disharmony._

 

“You wanted to know...” Aramis stated, his insulted tone making it hard to distinguish between exculpation and accusation.

 

Athos still tried to fathom what exactly he had missed as Aramis shouldered past his friend, punched the gate open and stormed past him.

Athos caught the gate as it swung back with both hands and leaned heavily against it.

Aramis had answered his question, had even opened up in the end and shown him a fraction of his true emotions, which was more than he had initially expected from his circumlocutory elaborations. But with no word had he brought him closer to what he had wanted to know. And unfortunately, the proper question only revealed itself as Aramis had answered his initial question. And not only this, like always with Aramis, his explanations had just revealed a further mystery, which Athos wanted to ask a whole new bunch of questions, about…

Why do you know all of this?

Why did you take the pain of this depth of research to gain all this knowledge?

What does it even matter how this shabby chapel is called, who the fuck cares?

Why do _you_ care?

_And whose commemorations were you really talking about?_

_Who disregarded your feelings towards what... whom?_

 

Athos chewed on his tongue, angry with himself.

Why hadn’t he phrased his question, the _one_ he had negotiated and knew Aramis could not but answer truly, more carefully?

He knew that this was what Aramis did. He talked a lot but seldom he said something of personal importance. He knew how to make it look as if he had shared a personal secret with you so that you felt closer, even special to him, and in reality he has simply spun a clever web of superficial distractions, enticed you, deceived you into believing this illusion of intimacy he had cleverly created while the real him has drawn even further away, being just as mysterious as before, sometimes more.

Did he do it on purpose? _Even with him?_

Did Aramis revel in his results?

Was this outcome his direct intent or just a by-product he accepted more or less willingly? Or did he think he had to do it, for whatever reason, to protect something, someone, despite the pain he caused himself in the process…

And more important, did _he_ do it again and tried to defend someone, Aramis in this case, who did not deserve his considerations in the littlest bit?

_What if Aramis maybe was nothing better than her, after all?_

 

 

\-------------------------------

 

**Aramis**

 

The boy named Fabrice was the youngest of his roommates. He was standing proud in front of Aramis’ cot like the important messenger he felt, waiting to be received.

Aramis lay on his front, the state of his backside still not allowing otherwise, not looking up, his face burrowed in the crook of his left arm, while he had the right one extended to accept whatever the boy had announced to be the important message.

The boy placed a folded little letter into the extended hand and proclaimed with unmistakable pride that _a girl_ had passed the missive to him in passing at the church of St. Jacques.

 

Aramis’ hand stilled around the note. The tips of his fingers carefully caressed the folded letter as if the structure of the paper was an expensive perfume to be enjoyed with them. He didn’t need to look at the elaborate folding to recognise from whom it was. He groaned into his cushion and without even lifting his head extended his hand back towards the boy who stood sentinel as if he awaited an important reply to be delivered instantly.

Aramis’ voice was muffled but unmistakeably strained as he snarled

“Take it back.”

 

The boy in front of his cot hesitated in astonishment.

“But…. but, it is from a girl!”

 

“That’s why you have to take it back, immediately.”

 

“I can’t!”

 

“I don’t even want to know, why you think you cannot, just do it!”

 

The boy didn’t move. His solemn voice underlined his determination.

 

“I have promised I’d deliver it to you…”

 

Aramis moaned into his cushion.

 

“…and you have to keep your promises, especially towards a lady!”

“Fabien…” Aramis tried to interrupt annoyed.

“It’s Fabrice!”

 

“Whatever, you did as promised, now leave me alone.”

 

“No, you haven’t gotten the message!”

 

Aramis groaned again, and the sound made clear that he was not going to change his opinion, but rather act on restoring his peace.

 

“I’ll read it to you”,

the dutiful boy therefore proclaimed and approached the cot to take the letter back. But as soon as his fingers touched the paper, Aramis jolted into action, snatched the paper back and gripped the boy’s wrist roughly.

The boy cried out in shock.

But the howl turned out shriller than just that.

His cry resonated with a sound of too much pain.

 

Aramis finally lifted his head and turned to his side warily.

For the first time he looked at the boy… _Fabrice._

The boy shared his room since the beginning of this term, but he hadn’t even remembered his name correctly. How old was he? Probably not much older than himself when he entered the seminary, nine or ten… he didn’t actually pay attention to these snot-nosed little brats.

Only the boy didn’t look so much like a brat, now. He was staring at Aramis with big honest eyes and Aramis saw lingering traces of defiance in them, as the boy obviously wanted to keep his promise he had given _a lady._ There was also pain and way too much fear in them…

Aramis slowly loosened his grip on Fabrice’s wrist and carefully pulled the boys sleeve up. Chafe marks of a rope. Although he had already expected what he would find, it hit him like a punch in his guts.

The marks looked not nearly as bad as his, but the traces were clear.

When his eyes turned back to the boys’, Fabrice shrank back from the sheer hatred in them. He wanted to pull back but Aramis held him in place.

“Who did this to you?”

 

The boy struggled to free himself from Aramis’ grip and started mewling.

“Tell me who this did!”

“No!” The boy squirmed and was close to panicking.

Aramis lifted himself off the bed to get a better grip at the boy and shake some sense into him but he was taken aback when the boy screeched in fear and threw himself on the floor crying hysterically. All anger instantly made way for concern.

“All is well, I am not going to hurt you, do not be afraid…”,

Aramis leant down to pat and soothe the boy, but the boy shrank away and sobbed.

 

“No, nothing is well and never will be.”

 

“Shhh, there, you can tell me what happened…”

 

“ _You_ know what happened!”

The boy whispered, his eyes fixed of the marks on Aramis’ wrist close to his face, and Aramis took his arm back to adjust his own sleeve over the proof that he knew what Fabrice was talking about.

 

“Maybe we can do something…”,

Aramis tried, but the boy just snorted as he sprang to his feet and turned to run away as he spat back,

 

“Like you did _something_ to help Pierre?”

Fabrice turned to rush off and just hesitated for a second at the door as he heard Aramis’ depleted sigh.

 

“I am sorry. I will read the note,” was all Aramis said, more to himself than to the boy who had already disappeared.

He turned back to his cot, lay gingerly back down, careful not to strain any wounds, and unfolded the little note.

 

    “ _Cousin Dear,_

 _Consider this a_ _s a last attempt to reach you._

_Know, that our aunt will miss our visits._

_We pray for your wellbeing!_

_Farewell,_

_M.”_

 

Aramis smoothed out the paper, pulled his little psalm book out from under his cushion and carefully placed the note between last side and the binding, before he started reciting the same verse, again, that he had read over and over these last few weeks, hoping for enlightenment.

 

_Domine, ne in furore tuo arguas me,_

_neque in ira tua corripias me._

 

_Quoniam sagittæ tuæ infixæ sunt mihi:_

_et confirmasti super me manum tuam._

 

_Non est sanitas in carne mea a facie iræ tuæ:_

_non est pax ossibus meis a facie peccatorum meorum._

 

_Quoniam iniquitates meæ supergressæ sunt caput meum:_

_et sicut onus grave gravatæ sunt super me._

 

_Putruerunt et corruptæ sunt cicatrices meæ,_

_a facie insipientiæ meæ._

 

_Miser factus sum, et curvatus sum usque in finem:_

_tota die contristatus ingrediebar._

 

_Quoniam lumbi mei impleti sunt illusionibus:_

_et non est sanitas in carne mea._

 

_Afflictus sum, et humiliatus sum nimis:_

_rugiebam a gemitu cordis mei._

 

_Domine, ante te omne desiderium meum:_

_et gemitus meus a te non est absconditus._

 

_Cor meum conturbatum est: dereliquit me virtus mea,_

_et lumen oculorum meorum: et ipsum non est mecum._

 

_Amici mei et proximi mei adversum me appropinquaverunt, et steterunt._

_Et qui iuxta me erant, de longe steterunt: et vim faciebant qui quærebant animam meam._

 

_Et qui inquirebant mala mihi, locuti sunt vanitates:_

_et dolos tota die meditabantur._

 

_Ego autem tamquam surdus non audiebam:_

_et sicut mutus non aperiens os suum._

 

_Et factus sum sicut homo non audiens:_

_et non habens in ore suo redargutiones._

 

_Quoniam in te Domine speravi:_

_tu exaudies me Domine Deus meus._

 

_Quia dixi: Nequando supergaudeant mihi inimici mei:_

_et dum commoventur pedes mei, super me magna locuti sunt._

 

_Quoniam ego in flagella paratus sum:_

_et dolor meus in conspectu meo semper._

 

_Quoniam iniquitatem meam annuntiabo:_

_et cogitabo pro peccato meo._

 

_Inimici autem mei vivunt, et confirmati sunt super me:_

_et multiplicati sunt qui oderunt me inique._

 

_Qui retribuunt mala pro bonis, detrahebant mihi:_

_quoniam sequebar bonitatem._

 

_Ne derelinquas me Domine Deus meus: ne discesseris a me._

_Intende in adiutorium meum, Domine Deus salutis meæ.**_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *He was buried in the chapel of St. Peter, located at the westward side of the basilica. 
> 
> **Psalm 38 is the third of the ‘Seven Penitential Psalms’.  
> They are prayed in repentance and are meant to make the penitent recognise his sinfulness, express his contrition and ask for forgiveness.
> 
> O Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger,  
> neither chasten me in thy wrath.
> 
> For thine arrows haven been driven deeply into me,  
> and thy hand has been hard and heavy on me.
> 
> Now, there is no uninjured piece of me left, facing thy fiercely glowing wrath,  
> neither can there ever be peace for my bones due to my grave sins.
> 
> For my transgressions have swollen over my head,  
> and have become too heavy a burden weighing me down.
> 
> My open wounds have putrefied and got infected,  
> because of my repeated stupidities.
> 
> I have sunk into misery, and I was bent over and brought down,  
> now you find me seized with deepest remorse.
> 
> For my loins burned filled with loathsome illusions,  
> until there was no sanity left in my flesh.
> 
> I am crushed, benumbed and humbled,  
> I groan through anguish of my heart.
> 
> O Lord, all my desires I lay open before thee,  
> and my torment no longer is hidden.
> 
> My heart panteth, my strength faileth me,  
> and even my eyes are deprived of their light.
> 
> My lovers and friends have been drawn to me but now regard me as dismal a sight.  
> And those closest to me stand off the farthest, while those who want my soul, my life, approach.
> 
> And those who want to do me evil speak false accusations;  
> And their deceitfulness knoweth no bounds.
> 
> But, like a deaf, I heard nothing.  
> And I was a numb, who openeth not his mouth.
> 
> Thus I became a man who heareth not,  
> and whose mouth with conscious guilt knew no reproof.
> 
> But now in thee, O Lord, I put my trust;  
> thou wilt hear me, O my God.
> 
> For I swear: Lest ever again, my enemies might triumph over me;  
> Who while my foot hath slippeth, have rejoiced over me.
> 
> For I am prepared to take the scourge,  
> my sorrow will always stay in my sight.
> 
> For I will confess all my wickedness,  
> and I am prepared to suffer severely for my sins.
> 
> My enemies are alive, and they have been mightier than me:  
> and they who wrongfully hate me have grown in numbers.
> 
> But they who render evil for good, will have to go against me,  
> They are my enemies, because I will fight for the right path.
> 
> Forsake me not, O Lord my God: do not desert me.  
> Ready thyself to help me, O Lord, God of my salvation.


	10. Dissenter

**Athos**

 

Along the way back from the cemetery, Athos had come to something close to a decision. If Aramis hadn’t gone to the garrison he would go to M. de Tréville.

He would report him unfit for duty…

 _Yes,_ his mind intervened sarcastically, _do that… the one day you arrive to duty being sober…_

 

Had his comrades ever done that to him? Even when he wasn’t able to get up at all? Even when he was sick for days? _Even when…_

_A blurred picture of Aramis turned up in his mind, sitting on the ridge of his bed, looking at him, caringly; he pulled off his glove and felt his forehead with the bare back of his hand; his skin so smooth and cold on his clam and feverish own…_

 

Athos forced his mind back to the present.

All right. He was not in the position to say anything against any of his comrades…

 _I_ _n the back of his mind he heard Porthos raise a mug and exclaim ‘all for one’_

… especially Aramis.

But he had to do something.

 

When he finally returned to Rue du Vieux-Colombier and walked through the gate of the garrison courtyard, the first person his eyes fell on was Porthos. His comrade looked at him exasperatedly and with a questioning stance. But Athos wasn’t in the mood to explain the situation right now, and even if he tried… what could he say that Porthos didn’t already know? He knew nothing about what was wrong with Aramis, and Aramis had told him nothing which had any worth to pass on to Porthos.

He just knew that he couldn’t go on like this.

 

He drew his eyes from Porthos’ face, set it on the stairwell that led up to the antechamber of their captain and made to stride past him without a single word.

If he couldn’t say something to get Aramis off duty, he would go and take himself a break.

 

Porthos caught him as he was shoulder to shoulder with him and pulled him back before him.

“He’s here.”

 

Athos snarled but still didn’t look at Porthos.

He could let their captain make the decision.

He could just say that he would not tolerate serving alongside Aramis any longer. It wasn’t as if _he_ had to make the decision for him… he was not responsible any longer; it was not his decision to make, _not this time…_

 

M. de Tréville might ask for his reason.

But he would not give any.

He never gave any.

He never needed to… he was de Tréville’s favourite, _still._

 

Maybe Aramis was better off back in the cassock. He loved the church more than soldiering anyways… all his translating and studying and all the fancy talking, sometimes in verses or even in Latin… that’s where he belonged.

 

_And that’s where he had fled from, beseeched him to teach him to kill!_

_Aramis… so gentle, a lovely lonely boy in a cassock, and him a brute of an elite soldier, best swordsman of the regiment…_

 

… _no, not so gentle after all… his eyes, burning, but ever so cold…._

_And then… all that blood…and he had thought it was his…_

 

No.

He couldn’t let himself be lured in like that again, by feelings that were wrongly bestowed. He _had_ to not forget that.

 

How ironic, that it were forget-me-nots that reminded him of _that,_ whenever he saw them. He used to carry one in a locket, to remind himself…

At least, now, he thought of the flower rather than the look in her cold blue eyes… eyes so very unlike _his…_

 

Surely de Tréville would find another regiment for Aramis.

 

But Porthos…

he heard his voice in his head again _‘…and one for all…’_

… he had come to be so very close with Aramis.

Too close.

He saw on the far horizon of his memories Porthos’ broad smile when he first relayed _it_ to him… _’The call us Inseparables’…_

_He adored Aramis._

What if he chose him?

_What if their captain did?_

He was the best swordsman their regiment had, still, and Tréville needed him.

_Or not._

So be it.

 

“Athos!”

Athos finally looked at Porthos. He hadn’t called him by his name for the first time, it would seem.

“The stables; let’s go to him.”

 

Porthos shoved Athos before him across the yard by the sheer force of his body.

It would have been of no good to try and oppose him now, in the middle of the yard, where anyone could see, Athos did not want to create a scene, not now.

Later.

 

Together they entered the stables.

 

None of the boys were around. Aramis had probably sent them away.

… _or scared them away…_

 

The fickle horse he rode – another _gift_ Aramis used to _lie_ about – was tied up in the last alcove in the furthest and darkest corner. Athos hated that horse, hated it _for what it stood for_.

 _No wonder it was mostly ill-tempered,_ Athos thought, convincing himself he referred to its accommodation.

 

And as if he had heard his thoughts, the black stallion flattened his ears and changed the stance of his hind quarters purposefully.

 

“Shhh.”

 

Aramis was hidden from their sight but his hand appeared before the horse’s muzzle.

Athos saw the supple leather of his glove rub soothingly over its soft nostrils before Aramis gracefully ducked through under the stallion’s arched neck and came over to their side.

More for the sake of the agitated animal as for them, Athos suspected.

Porthos looked from one to the other, obviously feeling whatever had unnerved the stallion, as well. He settled for Athos but found his sword-brother’s eyes fixed relentlessly on the other.

 

“Gentlemen, …

…would any of you care to tell me what the hell is going on?

…Aramis?”

 

“Porthos!”

Aramis chided smoothly at the use of the heresy, but otherwise evaded his eyes.

 

“Athos?”

Porthos pushed, but Athos just continued staring at Aramis. Anger flashed in his eyes… _betrayal_.

Porthos looked back at Aramis, questioningly, but Aramis was now holding Athos’ stare. Defiantly.

The stallion suddenly flicked his head around and tried to bite past Aramis, not caring who of the intruders was to blame for the disturbance, but his leash was too short. He made an angry snorting sound that reminded Athos more of a predator’s snarl and tried to shift, stomping his hooves and pressing his shoulder against Aramis’ back to gain room, but Aramis stood his ground remaining between the animal and the intruders.

 

“Aramis,“

Porthos tried again. He stepped forward and pulled Aramis away from his sheltered position before the animal that would clearly have his back, which earned him some angry bite marks of quite monstrous teeth in the thick leather of his sleeve. Thankfully the animal caught just the doublet and none of his skin between its teeth.

 

As soon as Aramis was out of the beast’s reach, Porthos took him by both his shoulders and turned him to stand in front of the stable’s wooden wall, facing the little light that fell in through the gaps between the wood from the courtyard on the opposite side wall to get a better look at his expression.

 

“Speak with me. What the h--, “ he relented at Aramis’ exasperated exhale.

“All right, all right. What happened?”

 

He released Aramis’ shoulders carefully, as if he feared the man might bolt, and then stepped back to give him space to answer to the both of them.

 

Aramis eyes finally switched to Porthos.

“Nothing happened.”

Aramis stated coolly.

 

Then everything happened at once:

Athos clenched his fist and pulled it back to take a big swing for a brutal punch.

Aramis’ horse neighed furiously, threw his head back and tried to tear itself free.

Porthos caught Athos’ movement from the corner of his eye and intercepted his fist mid-air, before it could land crushingly on Aramis’ jaw…

…or the wall behind it, when Aramis, gifted with extraordinary reflexes, would have swerved to evade the swing, he also must have seen coming from the corner of his eyes…

 

… _if_  he would have swerved.

 

Athos did not put it past Aramis to let himself be hit in that moment… on purpose.

If he would because he thought he deserved it, or only to make Athos feel guilty was beyond his understanding… _and he hated it._

 

“Hey, hey, hey.”

 

Athos’ fingers crunched under Porthos’ grip and Porthos increased the pressure until it hurt enough to make Athos stop fighting his hold and drop his hand.

Porthos turned to give Aramis a stare that stated his doubt regarding his _presumed_ reaction as well and jerked his head in the direction of the stables’ exit. Aramis hesitated pulling his non-disclosing gaze off Athos, but when his eyes caught those of Porthos he retreated without further resistance.

 

Porthos waited until Aramis had left the building before he turned to face Athos.

 

“What _the hell_ is wrong with you?!”

“Me?!”

Athos shouted incredulously,

“Him!

 _He_ is the one who doesn’t seem to see a need to come to work on time any longer.”

 

Athos stepped forward and spat his accusations right into Porthos’ face.

“ _He_ is the one who vanishes without telling _his brothers_ where he went and _he_ is the one who _lies and_ …”

“HEY!”

Porthos pushed Athos back by the arm he had just swung forward to jut a finger before his nose.

 

Both men were bristling, eyes flashing dangerously.

 

“Athos,” Porthos hissed between his teeth, clearly seeking to find the composure to talk calmly.

“Aramis has secrets, he _always_ did. We knew that.

From the very first moment we met him.

He _always_ vanishes, he strays, he lies about what he’s doing, he invents stories about some Latin shit he has to translate or some bloody verses he has to compose, people’s nieces he has to read from the bible to… that’s what he does, Athos.

He always has.”

 

“It’s different, now.” Athos stated matter-of-factly.

“No.” Porthos replied silently.

“ _You_ are different, now.”

 

Athos looked up into Porthos’ eyes, the darkness of the stable obscured most of his sight, but he felt the weight of Porthos’ judgement in them.

Was he right or was he just defending his beloved brother. _Most beloved brother…_

 

Arguing had never been Athos most favourite approach.

 

He chose wine.

 

 

\-------------------------------

 

**Aramis**

 

It would only have been fair, if she hadn’t showed up.

 

He had withdrawn for weeks, would have forever, but he had promised Fabie-…Fa _bri_ ce.

And it was the right thing to do.

To tell her in person.

Although it was a mistake.

 

He saw her approach and took a deep breath when she noticed him and hesitated in her step for a split-second. She had not thought he would come. He exhaled and relaxed his face. So did she.

 

“Cousin.”

He greeted her and bent over in a _proper_ bow.

 

“Cousin- _german_!”

She corrected and held out her hand.

 

He breathed, took it, and bent over it, applied the polite gesture of a kiss, his lips never touching her skin. _As was befitting._

She pulled her hand back, annoyed with his distant behaviour or with herself for having hoped for more.

 

“I am thankful that you came… still.” He said, sincerely.

 

“Let’s talk.” She said.

 

Aramis changed his weight to his left leg and looked at the grave. _Their grave._ He had practised this.

 

“I am truly sorry,“ he started, and the following ‘but’ was so obvious in his intonation, already, so she interrupted him.

“Not here,” she insisted “let’s sit somewhere.” She suggested and moved to take his arm.

“I’d rather remain standing.” Aramis said calmly but did not withdraw his arm.

“Let’s take a walk, then.” She replied coldly and turned.

 

She was hurt, probably thought he didn’t wish to talk in a more intimate surrounding, didn’t want to sit down so his escape would be faster. She was partially right but also wrong.

He fell into her step, took her arm and draped it over his, as a gentleman escorting a lady would. They were heading to their hedges in the Luxembourg Gardens. None of them said a word until they reached the high hedges of wild roses, had pulled around the corner where they knew no one could see them, and then pulled apart quickly. She stood before him, clearly wanting to confront him.

 

“Why did you come?” She asked.

 

He knew why.

He also knew he wouldn’t tell her.

Couldn’t.

 

“Listen,” he started and she averted her head, her dark curls bouncing in denial around her long neck - she didn’t like his tone.

“I know what you must think, but you assume wrong. I simply do not want you to get hurt. Not by me, not because of me. Not at all!”

His tone had changed at the last words.

 

She had deemed this the start of a typical evasive speech. Many words presented only to convey politely that he was bored of her company, or something alike.

But now this felt different.

She looked back at his perfectly polite façade and felt something was awry…

 

His smile, his expression, his eyes, everything looked perfectly fine…

No… his eyes.

Something was missing.

 

She looked closer and caught his gaze.

There.

It was the sparkling edge to their shine that was missing. His eyes were still gleaming beautifully, but it was as if their light was no longer focused by the facets of a precious stone but diverted by the shards of broken glass. _Broken._

 

Now that she had found a flaw, she noticed more.

His smile seemed edgier.

The smooth lines of his young jaws appeared harder.

He looked… _older_.

Also his stance, the way he continued to shift his weight, he had never moved so unceasingly.

And the way he had said he’d rather remain standing…

 

“You have been beaten.”

 

She walked around him taking in his twitching muscles as she roamed her fingers feather-light across his back and came back around to look at his face, again, closer, now.

 

He didn’t try to deny it.

 

“Cousin!” she whispered, concern alighting in her eyes.

“Chévalier!” he reminded her levelly.

 

“I thought you had decided to forsake me and I was … angry. I had hoped we had some kind of… _understanding_ …”

 

“I know. I am sorry.”

 

“No, _I_ am sorry, now!” She brought up a hand to his cheek. “Tell me what happened.”

 

He swerved to avoid her touch.

“I cannot. Things have changed, I can’t put you in this danger anymore.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“It is not safe. Please, we cannot see each other again.”

 

“That is not your decision to make alone.”

 

“Oh yes, it is. It is my _responsibility_ to protect those I care for and my duty to never let anyone come to harm, again, because of my… because of _me_.”

 

“So you do care for me.”

 

A statement, not a question. As such it did not require an answer. He had said enough, already.

 

“What did they do to you?”

 

“It doesn’t matter. I can take it.”

 

“So it is not because you are afraid?”

 

“I do not wish to stop seeing you for _my_ sake. You see, it is not always he who sows the wind who reaps the whirlwind, unfortunately. I cannot have anyone else suffer.”

 

“Why would I suffer? Let me assure you that I am not afraid.”

 

“But you should be, Marie, _I_ am afraid for you.”

 

He had used her true name. This was the first time he had used it since they first met, it felt years ago. He truly was afraid. For her. She felt like some sunny flower, which had wilted in her breast over the last few weeks, had started to bloom again.

 

“What if I tell you I am willing to take that risk?” She crossed her arms before her, protective of that feeble sprout.

 

Aramis solidified his position and rested one hand on his hip.

“I’ll tell you that I am not.”

 

“But sooner or later it might happen, nevertheless, even without you.”

 

Aramis looked away, no, people around _him_ tended to get into _serious_ trouble way more often and more grave than others.

 

“Maybe just because I wasn’t with _you_!”

 

Aramis shook his head. “You don’t understand the severity of the consequences.”

 

“It would occur to me that I would be a lot safer, if I actually did understand. I need to know what to expect, what it is that you tell me you can take. I want to know what I would condemn another boy to if you left me with no choice but to search substitution.”

 

Aramis’ gaze had turned cold but he didn’t say anything. He saw her arguments for the bait they were, one he would not rise to.

 

“I’d better go.”

 

“Wait!”

“Has it ever occurred to you that we –the girls– are in the same position as you –the boys– are, sooner or later, with or without you?”

 

Aramis expression remained cold and was enough evidence of his doubt about that they were.

 

“We actually face similar… _threats_. Don’t you think that it could be useful to help each other and talk with someone who actually _understands_?”

 

The kind of doubt in his eyes started to change and he asked her cautiously.

“They wouldn’t dare to _violate_ you, would they?”

 

“You have seen me being hit, right in front of you, already.”

 

Aramis eyes turned piercing as he drew nearer.

“But they wouldn’t do anything that leaves _a mark_ on you, would they? I mean, you have to go back to your families eventually, important families…”

 

“HA! What would you know? Most of us are sent off to some court or to marriage straight away and even if, don’t you think the church is quick enough to defend their however cruel punishments or make up some explanation why it was someone’s own fault?”

 

“All the more reason to leave you in peace, then!”

 

“No. All the more reason to talk to me, someone trustworthy, to confide in each other, to give each other strength and… relief!

 

You know, I’ve never met another person like you. Our conversations have been the most inspiring and stimulating, the most _challenging_ moments of my life. With you I finally felt free to exchange my true thoughts and beliefs, my fears and hopes and you kept me from planning bored mischief and entering unnecessary endangerments just to escape that stupidity and forlornness of this life. It was you, who pulled me out of that constant circle of misbehaviour and punishment.”

 

Aramis averted his eyes and swallowed.

Marie took a deep breath, this felt like everything she had was at stake.

She had to smile to herself as even in this, these few precious moments with _him_ were so much more educational than every rhetoric class she ever had. With him she finally got some kind of understanding, he refined what she was being educated for. She overcame the last bit of distance between them and laid her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look back at her.

 

“I prefer to be punished for something _worth_ the effort and am gladly willing to accept whatever punishment they deem fit for this incomparably more desirable cause.”

 

She lifted her right hand up and stroked some stray curls from his temple back behind his ear as she leaned up and pressed her lips on his.

It remained a chaste kiss, one he didn’t return. But when she pulled back, his eyes betrayed his inner dissension.

 

“What if I tell you that it is not worth it. _I_ am not worth it!”

 

“Do you expect me to believe you after our… last encounter? I know how I felt and I know _what_ I felt… and on the contrary, _mon chévalier_ , I think that _you_ are the only one worth it. You already showed that you genuinely care for me, more than you could expect from any other one at this point. You said you’d protect those you care for and would not let them be harmed, and yet you want to leave this, leave _me,_ to another?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Aramis was quick when he gripped her by her upper arms and pulled her close enough to hiss in her ear.

 

“People around me tend to get hurt. And with hurt I mean _badly_ …

You have everything before you, Marie. Everyone you’ll meet will be happy to indulge you, trust me. Just stay clear of men you don’t feel comfortable around… promise me!”

 

“My father is a _very_ important man, so you know I am supposed to enter marriage _untouched…”_

 

“There are other ways, _believe me_.”

 

“I am positively sure, _cousin_ , that you’ll be the last man I can meet and feel _comfortable_ around before I’ll be married off to some decorated veteran at court my father went to war with and the king will find me a suitable prize… so, I am game, enlighten me. I can assure you that whoever follows you will certainly not do so by my choice and most likely not be my gain. So go, if you want to, but do not try to fool yourself that it would be for _my_ better!”

 

Aramis stepped back, he shook his head, his eyes glistening with a regret that was too old to shed fresh tears.

 

“What kind of cavalier would that make me?”

 

“ _Mine_!”

 

Aramis halted in his retreat but it was a temporary stop, only.

 

“You promised, René,” she cried, and he flinched at the use of his real name, “you have already said ‘ _yes_ ’ to all of my inquiries, even those I hadn’t dared to voice, so far…”

 

“Do you even know what you are asking of me?”

 

“I ask you to stay my friend!”

 

“And to include you in my ‘not-so-modest’ affections?”

 

“You said, you could take it, whatever you thought might come. Will you? Or will you leave me, now, convincing not even yourself that this would be the most chivalrous thing to do?”

 

“And what would the most chivalrous thing to do be, _ma chère_?”

 

“To save me from the most certain danger, _mon chévalier_ , which would be to have to enter - whatever arrangement my father makes - disproportionately disadvantaged and thereby helplessly exposed…”

 

Aramis tried to blink away the look that would have given away his disbelief; whatever he could do would certainly not change _that._ But he didn’t succeed entirely and the fear in her eyes, the desperation and reliance were enough to dispel his dissent.

He sighed, turned back and advanced, took her hand ceremoniously, indicated a proper bow and looked up in her eyes with nothing but pure honesty.

 

“I solemnly pledge to do everything within my power and due to prevent that.”

 

With that he kissed her knuckles, lingeringly, relishing in the relieved gasp he drew from her.

His stare hurt her eyes, so deep, still hurt and wet but also scorching, piercing, and she felt a tear falling down her face. He straightened, took her face in his hands and smoothed the tear away with his thumb before leaning in to kiss her lips just before her wet sob could escape.

 

Aramis closed his eyes and deepened the kiss.

 

Feeling her tension leave and her body relax against him, he was convinced he had taken the right decision.

He was absolutely sure he would burn in hell for it, nevertheless. And the voice of Father Arnault mixed with his own in his head...

 

_Beatus vir qui suffert tentationem...*_

 

_...The serpent beguiled me, so I did eat.**_

 

 

\-------------------------------

 

**Athos**

 

Athos sat alongside his bed, well into the f-, s-, he looked around to the scattered waste glass on the floor, ... _severalst_... bottle of wine as a sudden violent intrusion was announced by the slamming of his apartment's door.

He cared enough to vanish the kerchief he was holding into his sleeve, but not enough to bend down and reach for his rapier. What was more, he recognised the poised stride that approached his bed-chamber.

 

He didn't look up as Aramis entered his room, gripped the one chair from beside his nightstand and placed it in front of his bed, directly opposite him... way too close for his safety, and took a seat.

Athos' head was too heavy to lift it and look at his friend, so was his arm, otherwise he would have smashed the bottle over his head... He forced his numb tongue to voice his protest, at least.

 

“What about your agreed procedure of knocking and coming back later, if I recall correctly, I also could have company...”

Athos drawled and looked at his bottle.

The wine definitely counted as company.

 

Aramis wrenched the bottle from his hand and set it aside, then gripped Athos' chin with his right hand and forced it up, so he could look into eyes.

 

“His name was Pierre, _d'accord_.

He was – dear to me.

He died... because of me.

His grave... I–” Aramis exhaled deeply.

“I'll miss it.”

 

Athos was caught between a strange sudden sobriety and the instantly following sickness and vertigo that came with the realisation that this was Aramis sitting across from him - in his bed-chamber -, his knees touching the sideboard of his bed left and right from his thighs, his gloved middle-finger chafing the raw skin at the underside of his badly trimmed chin. He was looking at him intently and his voice signified that his words carried a certain importancy, as did his presence at this time of night...

 

“He was your – friend.” Athos more asked then stated.

 

“He was more than that... ” Aramis confirmed.

 

“... like … a brother.” Athos finished his sentence and in his head echoed the ambiguous voice of the priest, Père Baptiste, again, the way he had repeated that word... _brother_.

 

Aramis got up, held Athos' face with both his hands and ran a thumb softly across his left cheekbone.

 

“Until when are thou drunk? Go sleep, turn aside thy wine from thee.”***

Aramis intonated barely audible before he gave him a gentle kiss on his forehead... _like a priest_... and left as swift as he had come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jacobus, 1:12 Blessed is the man who perseveres under temptation.
> 
> **Genesis, 3:13 And the Lord God said unto the woman, 'What is this that thou hast done?' And the woman said, 'The serpent beguiled me, so I did eat.'
> 
> ***Samuel, 1:14 And Eli said unto her, 'Until when are thou drunk? Go sleep, turn aside thy wine from thee.'


End file.
